


Never Forget

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cemetery, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Medical, Nightmares, Post-Reichenbach, rooftop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-19 14:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3613176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A completed, short fic in which John pulls the pieces of his life post Reichenbach back together only to have a dramatic discovery.  He finally deduces the truth, that Sherlock is not dead, and comes to grips with His new changed life.  John may have followed Sherlock in many adventures, but he is not to be trifled with, our Captain Watson.  And after a reunion and return to Baker Street, they discover some wonderful ways to come to grips with the past while embracing the present.  *snickers*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From Baker Street to Baker Street

Never forget that John Watson was a captain, a soldier, a man of integrity and determination. Never underestimate his power. Never assume, even though he was at times a force behind Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, he was still a force.

In the days immediately after the Fall (which he greatly preferred to referring it as opposed to the Jump), John most savored those moments between sleep and wakefulness. It was reminiscent of the Peter Pan and Tinkerbell discussion, that she would be waiting there, “that's where you'll find me”, where that’s where they will always be together. Those seconds were precious, relaxed from a night of sleep before consciousness kicked in. And oh, he relished those nights of sleep that were unscathed by the nightmares. Sleeping was escapism until it wasn’t. John’s dreams were never particularly pleasant, and once he was awake, the darkness settled in on him like a wet, woolen mantle. That middle ground, though, was peaceful, relaxing, comfortable, and never lasted past when his brain engaged. _My best mate took his life, jumped off a building, forced me to watch him. Selfish, heartless bastard_. And then the day would begin.

Creating a new life out of what he’d shared with Sherlock was mostly an uphill climb, especially in the beginning. He kept in touch with Greg, being called to the occasional crime scene mostly out of rote. Greg didn't particularly need him, but the connection was most definitely needed by both from time to time. It was Greg who helped him move his meager belongings out of the flat on Baker Street and into a studio across town, cheap, austere, impersonal. Molly had sort of withered into the background, her social anxiety becoming more pronounced, John felt, but he wasn’t sure if it was at all related to Sherlock’s suicide. Partly, John felt it must have been absolutely terrible for her, knowing her fondness for Sherlock, to have had to perform the autopsy. John’s perspective never got so bad that he couldn’t at least sort of appreciate where their friends had been left in a very bad place as well. He kept in touch with Mike, communicated occasionally with Mycroft, but that hurt him to the core. Mycroft intimated that the whole suicide drama revolved around John, not actually laying blame, but he might as well have. _Hello,_ John seethed silently, not my fault here.

His therapist helped him create additional coping mechanisms. He took up jogging a few times a week when the weather allowed, and found that the physical demands of aerobic exercise was a great release of endorphins. While it lasted, anyway. She suggested volunteering a few hours a month on a national suicide hotline, but John’s throat went dry at the thought. Being on the phone while someone took their own life once was quite enough, thank you very much. His visits tapered off until finally she discharged him, a friendly hug and a reminder that he was always welcome to call for a one-off session anytime, and that, in fact, she welcomed it. He pocketed her card.

Time passed, he started increasing hours at the surgery, telling himself there was no reason he shouldn’t tackle full time hours, plus a few extra. The office branched out into some walk-in clinic hours as well, and that was where John felt the most productive, helping patients in something of a crisis. While they were perhaps not critically ill, there was a definite, urgent health need. And every now and again, he would see a patient with serious illnesses, like sepsis, or the early onset of diabetes, or renal failure. Occasionally, he even was confronted with broken bones, dislocations, or simple suturing, which he carefully steeled his mind against any previous association with the sutures he used to place on Baker Street. Office staff, while very friendly, seemed to treat him, still, with kid gloves, as if he were a fragile flower and that saying the wrong thing would devastate him. Mostly, at the clinic, he had his role and boundaries secure, and he coped because he was a doctor, ex-army, and that’s what the role entailed for him.

Sleep was just another non coping mechanism, from time to time, when he just couldn't think anymore about any of it so he went to bed early, alone, closing his eyes to pass the time until morning came, sometimes entirely too early, and he rose to survive one more day. Lather, rinse, repeat. Chasing something in the dream, fading to falling, panicking pursuit, unknown enemies, helplessness - John awakened at times totally wrung out, other times furious enough to punch walls. Many early days, it seemed, there was just no escape. He lamented that he never dreamed peacefully of Sherlock, or of their adventures, the good times, the fun and absolute insanity of living with a nutter like Sherlock Holmes.

There were times he recognized how broken he was, as he was feeling the need for keeping company, pursuing non isolation, while not letting anyone close enough to see even remotely, how actually ruined he was on the inside. He had a random date with Lynda, a sales rep that came into the clinic. It was an absolute disaster.

**Meanwhile, outside the clinic...**

Funny how his mind always separated things into “before”, and “after”, and almost a year after, there was a motor vehicle accident out in front of the building. Everyone in the clinic at the time heard tires screeching, loud noises of metal meeting non-movable objects. The receptionist, panic-stricken, came to get John away from the throat culture evaluation, pressed the trauma bag into his hand, and followed him out to the street. John was the only doctor there that day, and he surveyed the scene, directed the summons of an ambulance, while he and Louise, one of the nurses in clinic, scrambled to lend aid.

The elderly driver of one vehicle had been ejected through the windshield, must have been traveling at an enormously excessive speed. John’s army experience had certainly given him enough trauma to recognize probable rupture of the great vessels. The victim lay on his side, arm outstretched, eyes open, glassy. There was no carotid pulse, he checked, quickly donning gloves, glanced back at the face, pale gray, lifeless. For the briefest moment, the head was full of dark curls, forehead bleeding, pool of blood underneath.... He blinked, and the vision cleared, quickly as it had come, back to balding head, wisps of fringe, outside the clinic there in London. His gut instinct was to ease the man on his back, begin basic life support, but he knew as certainly as he knew his own name that the man was beyond saving. He took his bag to the other victim, who was still in the car, bleeding profusely from the gash over the nose, lips bloodied, forehead gouged. He removed dressings from the kit, staunched the bleeding while maintaining cervical spine immobility. The driver was in shock, eyes wide, kept murmuring, “I didn’t see him, he just appeared, I had no idea, is he ok? I didn’t see him, he just...” Louise handed him a C-spine collar, and, jointly, they eased it on. She then took John’s place holding bandages, while he started an IV, opened up to infuse rapidly, all the while talking calmly, keeping a handle of the patient’s level of consciousness. There was a compound fracture of the leg, John saw, not hemorrhaging, After long minutes, he was rewarded by sirens approaching. The patient was slightly more stable, color improved but still very pale. Out of the corner of his eye, John noted police activity, and someone had thrown a sheet over the dead man laying on the kerb surrounded by car debris.

He handed off the patient to the EMT’s, faded into the background, and the day continued to unfold sans drama for the rest of the clinic visits. His hands, he noted as he thanked his staff for their quick service, were entirely and completely steady. Damned adrenaline junkie indeed, he mused, thinking of Mycroft.

John dreamed that night of his buddy Dylan, a medical corpsman in his unit, who bench-pressed people for fun and arm-wrestled for sheer pleasure of victory. More than one wrist had been inadvertently broken, or so went the stories. The shoulders, deltoids, pectorals were massive, and John was always a little amused that such a big threatening looking soldier could be such an absolute teddy bear. Oh, he was mean as all get out when necessary, and tough as nails in combat, but he had a soft spot for Afghani children and even wild dogs that ran the streets. Dylan had been known to collect school supplies from home for children, and any spare scrap of food, whether allowed or not, was collected and saved in Dylan’s pockets for hungry child or beast. 

John and Dylan, and a few others, had a few very hairy adventures involving a jeep, sandstorm, and stumbling upon an Iraqi patrol, where it was sheer mental energy that prevented any of them from getting killed. Dylan had created a diversion using well-placed rocks thrown into a pile of metal scraps while John and two others released the transmission of the enemy jeep that sent it rolling down hill. While the Iraqi’s had been distracted, the soldiers grabbed weaponry left behind and raced off in the other direction into a tuft of vegetation. Dylan’s wife had given birth that night, and the whiskey that was passed along once they’d returned to camp drank to an early end of the war and to the health of Dylan’s new son Cooper. 

A few weeks later, they’d come under sniper attack in a gruesome, horrifying, frightening end in which John had been seriously injured and the unit had suffered a staggering 8 casualties, Dylan among the 7 fatalities. John, in reality, had been the only survivor. The dream left John wrung out, empty, and ready to implode with guilt. As with the traffic accident, Dylan had died almost instantly of his injuries, while John had been one of the fortunate, who had been resuscitated at the scene and lived to see an honorable discharge, Distinguished Cross award, and survival.

Survivor guilt was a terrible thing, he knew. It plagued him from military days when he considered the losses, the lives of soldiers, friends, whom he’d been unable to save. He questioned his actions even as he knew he’d done his absolute best. There was no doubt he suffered greatly with PTSD, and the incident with Sherlock had dredged up emotional pain that John, most of the time, just suppressed so he wouldn’t choose, one day, to step off the roof himself. The accident triggered the same questioning feelings, should he have at least attempted to save the man on the kerb? It always seemed to come back to, had he made the right choice? 

Worse, was Sherlock’s plummet off the roof preventable? Had John not done enough then, either? Not having the whole story was, most of the time, something he chose not to think about, but at times - like after the nightmare about Dylan or after the difficult choice in the accident outside the clinic - he felt as if he might have missed and was continuing to miss something. He saw the lifeless body, pulseless, laying there, but he'd been dizzy in real time, having slightly concussed his head against the street pavement. Unfixable no matter how he looked at it.

Whatever haunted him about the day of the fall at St Bart's continued to elude him and was wreaking havoc on his attempts to sleep. Over the next few weeks, nightmares alternated with war memories, including flashbacks of real events and people that he had grown to love, and he mourned their deaths all over again. Most of the dreams he was able to remember ended with rushing to Sherlock's side, feeling for an absent pulse, checking head injuries, and awakening in a heartpounding, frightening sweat.

**Meanwhile, on the dating scene...**

John ended up with another blind date courtesy of Sarah. She all but forced him to go, threatening his livelihood (joking, at least he hoped) if he didn’t comply. And so it happened that he came to be seated alone after Melissa had stormed out. Of course, he deserved some of it, he realized, but he could have done without the public scene. Dinner had been nice, they’d ranged in conversation about the trivial, casual, weather, hobbies and interests, until Melissa mentioned that Sarah had told her about John’s connection to Sherlock Holmes. She asked a few questions, which, in hindsight, John should have carefully stepped around the answers. Instead, words tumbled from him, and Melissa had grown pensive and unsettled. When she used a phrase that implied that unstable people are difficult and not worth the angst, his eyes blazed and he just barely avoided a lashing out. But this date was over, of course, in his mind, and when she hinted at needing to leave, John wasn’t even particularly willing to see her home. Instead, he played with his pint, setting the edge down on the coaster, barely making eye contact with her.

Melissa had stood then, frustrated and annoyed. Her voice raised a bit, then, when she announced that he was a jerk and that she was leaving. Her parting shot, delivered once patrons in the restaurant were almost all paying attention, was that perhaps he should consider a support group for bereaved spouses, because that was as sure as hell how he was acting. John sat there for a long time afterward, avoiding the pitying looks from other patrons and refilling his drink several more times before he stumbled home.

The next weekend, rather than sit home brooding - and John never referred to that activity as sulking, for obvious connotations - he called Mike, arranged a meet downtown. Mike, however, received a phone call from his wife just after the meal, about an urgent home repair, something about a leaking pipe, and he’d apologized profusely and left John at the bar. There was a football game on, which was a welcome diversion for him and a few blokes at the bar. A guy next to John, nice looking, said his name was Philip, struck up a conversation, and they casually chatted for the next hour or so until the game was ended.

The rest of the evening was something of a blur, unfortunately as the alcohol consumption rose and inhibitions fell. John ended up outside with Philip, and it a fit of honesty, completely recognized Philip’s interest but said nothing to deter him. Philip invited him home, and John hesitated, then. Philip softened, touched John’s arm, supportive, said it was “fine, no rush”. They made plans to meet a few days later and exchanged phone numbers. He puzzled a bit at his interest, remembering his protests at being mistaken for Sherlock’s date.

Their next meeting left little doubt that Philip was very interested and John was very curious. Philip was tall, with dark curls, and outgoingly funny. His quick wit was a blessed distraction and did much to alleviate John’s nervousness. Dinner was casual, and Philip carefully brushed up against John from time to time, arm or leg. Drinks at the bar found them crowded together, no football but rugby on this time, and John found himself talking about when he used to play. Philip’s grin and interest were very real, and before long, conversation lagged a bit and Philip leaned closer, his eyes flicking to John’s mouth. The kiss that followed was strangely empty for John. It was not distasteful, rather nice, warm, actually, but left him hollow. He wondered if he wasn’t trying hard enough, leaned in, reached a hand into Philips collar, felt the immediate response from Philip.

“Let’s get out of here,” Philip said, eyes dark, grasping John’s hand.

“I can’t.” John hedged, feeling terrible, as if he’d teased without meaning to. “I’m sorry, this was very nice, and I’m... flattered.”

Philip sighed, looked around, a sad sparkle in his eye. “Okay, I knew you were a long shot anyway. First date, with a guy I mean?”

John wasn’t sure how to answer that. “In a couple years, yes.”

He was watching John’s face, and John was extremely grateful Philip was not upset. “There’s someone else, then, John?”

Words like _broken and ruined_ circled in his frontal lobe. All John could do was swallow around the lump in his throat and nod. Philip had already moved on in his mind, John could see, pleasantry gone, face closed. He stood, turned, walked away without a backwards glance. John, mostly, was relieved.

**Meanwhile, Mycroft and Greg pay John a visit...**

John’s shift had ended, a routine boring day. God, he was grateful for boring some of the time. Dinner, scrounged from remnants of leftovers and bottom of the pantry ended up being rice, beans, chicken. And a tumbler of scotch. But the restlessness continued after a mindless dinner. He thought about going to the pub down the street, changed his mind.

A knock on the door sounded ridiculously loud and out of place. He never received visitors, knowing the flat was as impersonal, small, cramped, and pathetic as he sometimes viewed his present state of mind. While his first instinct was to off the light and ignore the knock, his sense of propriety drove him to his stockinged feet and he answered.

Mycroft and Greg stood, slightly apart, expressions somber, intense. John’s stomach roiled, instinctively knowing this was bad, no, devastating news. Like the telegram delivery of a serviceman in WWII or a draft notice or a juror summons. Wordlessly, he stood aside, and they entered.

His flat was a studio, really, only 3 small rooms. Mycroft had a folder under an arm instead of an umbrella. Greg must have just ended work, or was here on official capacity, as his holster was barely visible under the jacket that gapped as he sat down. John wondered briefly if something had happened to Harry. John used silence well, he always had, and today was no different. They had come knocking, they could bloody well initiate. So he waited.

Finally Mycroft cleared his throat, lowered awkwardly into a chair. “John.” The file opened and closed. “We wanted to advise you of certain... happenings that will be newsworthy over the next days.” There was a sadness in his eyes, John saw, and a certain set to his jaw. “Sherlock’s name has been cleared of any fraudulent activity. He is innocent of all charges. The investigation has been stalled somewhat, but over the last few days, there has been a breakthrough, a confession, and concrete evidence showing that Sherlock Holmes was a victim of false accusations. His confession was,” Mycroft actually paused, his throat obviously thick with emotion, John saw, “fake. Each and every case has been substantiated, and he was not wrong. He was not a fraud.”

Mycroft’s words started to hum in John’s head, and there was pounding and pain behind his ears. All wrong, all for nothing, he jumped for nothing, he was not wrong! His eyes drifted closed, he leaned forward, a wave of nausea striking, elbows to knees, and his mind just shut down. All for nothing. He had jumped, knowing the truth, obviously, and jumped anyway. Selfish, weak bastard. Why on earth would such a smart man do such a stupid, foolish, idiotic, senseless act?

Greg’s hand touched his shoulder, then, and Mycroft’s words were still droning on, details of the investigation. Greg intervened, then, telling Mycroft, “Stop, he’s not listening.” To John, then, “You okay, mate?”

“Of course I am not alright.” John wished, not for the first time, that he could just dissolve into blissful oblivion in a place away from the hurt and angst and deep pain of the last year and a half. The progress he’d made, the numbing effects of time passing, was all gone, wounds freshly opened, angry, raw, throbbing. He saw, vivid images of Sherlock’s bloody form, his outstretched hand, heard his own cry at the scene.

“John,” Mycroft said again, his impatience somewhat evident at John’s non-advantageous sentiment, “We are here to request your immediate relocation to Baker Street. For your protection. For the flurry of public scrutiny. I’m concerned that you are not safe here.”

John looked up, then, immediately ready to protest out of sheer defiance. He recalled the public street, the unlocked entry-ways, the seediness of the neighborhood, the proximity to the bus station. He recalled the chaos of the immediate days after the fall, the reporters, the press, the onlookers, the fans, all hell-bent with relentless pursuit of capturing a heartbroken assistant and blogger for the worlds only consulting detective. He had nearly snapped then, and that was with Mycroft’s security protection and personal assistant for a number of weeks until the furor died down and John felt pulled to move out of the Baker Street flat before he lost his frigging mind.

He swallowed, hating that he was going to agree. “Fine.” There was a huge part of him that simply didn’t care anymore. What did it matter?

“We wanted you to hear it from us, for measures to be in place. I’m sorry, John. This must be a tremendous shock.” 

Mycroft stood, then, and John rose as well. “I’m sorry for you, too.” He grabbed Sherlock’s brother, pulled him into an extremely awkward hug, wishing he’d been able to hug Sherlock and help exorcise whatever demons that drove him to suicide. The Holmes brothers were brilliant, but the similarity kind of ended there, the hug ended, Mycroft’s rigidity and distaste palpable. John sighed, yearning for the other brother who was gone. And now, he finds out, completely, wholly, totally unnecessarily.

The closer the entourage got to Baker Street the more John’s pulse raced and his heart pounded. His palms were sweaty. He didn’t want Baker street as it was now, he wanted to turn back time to happier days. Fucking Sherlock, he thought, his jaw clenching. Mycroft’s minions were bringing the rest of John’s things early the next day, already packing things up, while John brought the few bags he needed more urgently along with him that night. Mrs. Hudson was waiting in the flat of 221B, clucked over him with all the sweetness she had in her, welcomed him home, and said she was expecting tea with him the next morning. He tried, for her sake, to be friendly, which probably - hopefully - came off as at least civil.

“Convenient there were no tenants, or had they just moved out?” He blinked then, noting that much of the furniture was the same, which struck him as odd.

“There were no tenants,” Mycroft informed him. “It’s been vacant since...”

John leveled a look at Mycroft. “Been paying the rent out of sentiment?”

Mycroft shook his head, smirking just slightly at John. “I’ve owned this building for 10 years.” It was a gentle smirk, at least, but John still felt deep pangs of annoyance.

He felt his jaws tighten. “Of course you did.” The flat seemed wholly different, as if the very life and vigor was gone and would never return. “He knew?” John really, deep in his gut, did not want to be here.

“Of course.” 

Greg spoke up then, “You’ll let us know if you have any problems? Hassled by anyone, I mean.”

John took in the two men looking at him, disgusted and wanting them gone immediately. “Of course, there is always the surveillance here, you’ll probably know about it before I do.”

“For your safety, John, please. There are people who are going to be very interested, and perhaps angry, about this turn of events.” 

Greg and Mycroft were barely out of the flat when John unintentionally let out a string of soldier-prone curses at the former tenant of the flat who caved, who took an easy way out, who left him, for God’s sake. “Why did you do it, you bugger?” he whispered, hearing and being annoyed at the brokenness of his tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baker Street, ahhhhh.
> 
> A shout out to servicemen who go so far above duty. Dylan is based loosely on home town hero Travis Manion, who was KIA serving his country. He had a mission to provide for schools in Iraq and Afghanistan, and yes, he collected supplies, which were well received. His loss was absolutely tragic.


	2. John discovers a few things, and his Blog gets attention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where John questions his sanity.

**Baker Street**

Once alone in the flat, he allowed himself to actually see it. Baker Street was everything it had been and yet nothing was similar. Many things were gone, but some remained. The violin was missing but the chairs were both there. He turned the TV on so the quiet would not overwhelm him with its deafening loudness. The kettle he found was still functional, and he put that to use while waves of grief roiled over his head and cascaded around his ears. The tea cooled, untouched, while tears of sorrow, finally, flowed at the meaningless turn of events. Sherlock, he fussed, actual sobs wreaking from his throat, how dare you? The tears cooled on his cheeks, too, and he passed out on the couch, blissfully with no nightmares, night terrors, or much REM sleep, either. Much as he'd loved Baker Street, it was so hard to be back.

++

When the news broke, he stopped answering his phone unless he knew the caller. Mycroft’s assistants met him at the door each morning, ran interference for him to a waiting car, delivered him to work, and then reversed the process each evening. They were, as Mycroft predicted, interested, relentless, and brutal. Questions fired at him, even in the brief run from building to vehicle, ranged the gamut from “how do you feel” to “are you angry at Sherlock Holmes for being a coward?” One particularly snippy reporter asked if Sherlock’s innocence actually really changed anything, being that he was still dead. John had a hard time answering that honestly, later when he thought about it.

Finally, he called his therapist, booked weekly sessions again, and after a few weeks had elapsed, started running more under cover of dusk when he could slip out in dark running gear, usually late at night, undetected, filling as many waking hours as he could. He considered sleeping in his old room, decided the couch would suit for a few more nights. His therapist recommended journaling again, and John thought about it only long enough to realize he did not want to memorialize his pain. 

**Meanwhile, on CCTV...**

Harry called John a couple of days later, and she was so upset on the phone that John stopped by after work, albeit reluctantly. Apparently, there had been someone trying to break in to her flat, had trashed the patio, and Harry’d found evidence of other suspicious behavior on both her front and back entrances. Once, she told him, she’d found things outside rearranged, as if there’d been a party or something, as there were empty bottles lying around. There were jimmy marks on her front step window. She was starting to not sleep at night and was afraid to come home from work to find more suspicious behavior. John helped her clean up some of the vandalism, tried to reassure her, made sure the locks were functional and secure. He suggested getting the police involved. She balked at that, preferring to find out what was going on first, and asked about installing cameras that would turn on by motion sensor. It set John to thinking that Mycroft already had cameras out.

He asked Harry to sit tight for a few days while he looked into it.

Mycroft agreed to check it out, and asked John to stop by with hard dates and approximate times to narrow down the viewing of the camera recordings. John complied, and was not surprised when Mycroft sent a car round to fetch him after clinic hours.

He led him down one of the hallways of his home (massive, impressive, unfeeling) to a room dedicated to surveillance. There were a few different size and resolution frames, multiple control decks, several high powered computer towers. He introduced him to one of the assistants, younger than John, high energy, eager to help, who sat down with John and showed him the various parameters that lent itself to searching by date, time and location. Mycroft watched silently, laughing with mirth as John told them that rather than search for Harry’s mystery activity, he would much rather search for the driver of the car that had showered him (deliberately, John was sure of it) by driving through a puddle next to him as he walked from the tube to the surgery. He had been, he informed them, acting offended, thoroughly drenched. John appealed to their sense of revenge and asked for the license plate number of the auto. The worker showed John about the search asked if he wanted to try it. He cautioned that it was a bit harder than it looked, mostly just due to camera angles. After finally finding the car that he was after, and requesting rather haughtily that Mycroft intervene, he did find that searching did get easier with practice. He jotted the license, make and model of the car, just for kicks.

Mycroft’s mobile rang a few times, and eventually he stepped away, summoned by something obviously of far more importance than John, and said farewell and good luck tracking down Harry’s perpetrator. It ended up being, from what John could tell, anyway, drunk friends. Not a huge shock there.

Something that had been in the back of his mind, then, just sort of slid out of his fingers onto the search fields. He entered the address at St. Barts, the date of the fall, mid afternoon to start with. His throat was dry as he thought about watching Sherlock’s fall from any angle. It was bad enough in John’s memory, and he recalled only seeing the coat billowing in the initial step off the roof; his view had been blocked. Maybe seeing what happened would settle his mind about it. Maybe. Dots that indicated searching seemed to linger, and then the screen filled with a black box, white letters, access denied, enter security code, followed by blinking question marks. John stared, not sure if he should be disappointed or tremendously relieved. There were quick focused heavy steps in the hallway, Mycroft returned, obviously some alert had been triggered, and he materialized behind John. Seated calmly, John returned steely eye contact. He would offer no apology.

“That would be most unwise, Dr. Watson.” Ah, back to impersonal titles and a reminder that there actually is no friendship.

“Have you seen it?”

“No. Why on earth would I want to?”

“It just doesn’t make sense. Why was he... " John swallowed, realized this was a losing battle anyway. Mycroft never gave in and had always been particularly unreasonable and stubborn when it came to his brother. "I don’t understand...” John sighed, recognizing the futility of the conversation. “Nevermind.” He considered the slip of paper he’d written the license number of the car that had drenched him, realized he didn't care, crumpled it, binned it.

“Did you find out what happened at your sister’s?”

He nodded. “Drunk friends, two separate times.” John paused. “Thanks.”

**Meanwhile, on the computer...**

His therapist asked him one week about the blog, suggesting if he wasn't interested in journalling, perhaps that would be a good outlet for some creativity and to allow some of the good memories to secure a front and center portion of his waking thoughts. Remembering good times might be a good channeling of energy, she told him. _Perhaps_ , John agreed, _that might have some merit_. Sherlock was obnoxiously on his mind, in his face, always right there anyway, the flat relentless in its memories and associations. Just maybe...

He carefully weighed the first blog entry, choosing precisely his words for addressing the recent news. He wrestled more than ever about how to not come across as either extremely arrogant, with an I told you so, or heartbroken at the senselessness of the suicide. He settled on relating just the fact of the news headline that was already published, “Sherlock Holmes is Innocent, Exonerated, Redeemed”. He thanked NSY and all those who had worked so tirelessly to bring about this day that John, in his heart, knew all along. Comments were encouraging, some of them a bit nostalgic but fond. John paused over some of the anonymous comments, knowing that Sherlock used to, occasionally, snipe at him anonymously after a blog post he found criticism with. Blog activity was incredible, increasing exponentially as the week wore on. Many of the readers requested more stories, and John eyed his notebook of case details. There were so many that could still be written. 

A day off from the clinic, there at Baker Street, he was drawn to one of the last cases Sherlock worked on, about a marital relationship on the rocks where the husband had rigged and staged a crime scene that backfired on him, starting at a very romantic dinner excursion and resulting in serious gunshot injury. John titled it, “Eat, Prey, Love” and related the clever wit of Sherlock Holmes as he solved what he considered a mundane, boring problem. He saved the draft, as his usual practice, would read it again in the morning over coffee for his final edits, before posting it.

The morning coffee turned into tea because there was no milk. He sighed, the reminders still so fresh after returning to Baker Street. Bloody perpetually running out of milk. He took a sip, turned on the computer, logged in, and sat in shock for a few moments. His blog title had changed to “Eats, Shoots, Leaves”. He was fairly certain, almost positive that he hadn’t arisen mid-slumber to revisit the computer but his mind overanalyzed that he must have. After another cup of coffee, he settled on the new blog title, liking it better, and posted the entry. The day was stretched wide open before him, so he checked frequently throughout the morning, amazed at the new hits, the volume of comments, and the support he received. One anonymous reader posted simply, “cute title”. John smirked at that. He powered everything down, then, went for a mind-clearing run. He decided to get out more, get away from the flat and his - apparently - mind that was over-fatigued. That must be it.

He met Greg one evening, found the conversation a bit empty but the companionship passable. Greg asked how things were, being back in the flat, and John found himself unable to answer, his voice too thick. Maybe it was too soon.

About a week later, he was finishing up another case for the blog, remembering the post-solving thrill of the connection he and Sherlock had reveled in. It would have been a difficult way to end the blog for posting, but John’s mind kept crafting a way to describe the sense of fulfillment, solid friendship, the teamwork and camaraderie. He opened a new tab, dated it, titled it “Companion Piece do not ever post!” and started pouring out details about the connection, about the case. It segued into how alone he was feeling, the devastation of a good friendship detonated into nothingness so suddenly and traumatically. And for nothing. His fingers flew, time ceased, night fell, the tea grew stone cold, and when John finally re-surfaced, many paragraphs and pages later, his face was wet, his chest hurt from heaving, and his throat was parched. He expressed regret that he never spoke of his truest friendship, of his feelings, his attraction. Regretted missed opportunities. He was only glad the flat was empty. Broken man, broken life, broken heart. He should never have come back to Baker Street. New paragraph, he typed, I have to get out of Baker Street while I can. Before...

He saved everything, numbly, logged off, powered down, and stumbled to the couch. He was unwilling, still, to sleep in either bedroom. In the morning, he reasoned, he was going to call Mycroft, beg off this ridiculous arrangement, and, for his own mental health, move back out. Of all the terrible ideas he’d ever agreed to, this was, hands down, the worst of all.

The morning began for him in the middle of the night, awakening too early, the only perk to never really falling asleep was that there were no nightmares. His head ached, from emotional distress, and he thought about going to work early to save him from thinking too much. But he glimpsed his army jacket hanging, time to soldier up, then. He shook his head at himself sadly, tried to recall the military fortitude, and he logged back on. He would just delete the lunatic ramblings, unread, there was no point. The blog post would be his last, as it was triggering too much pain within. He knew self-preservation, and it was time to take action.

The computer screen came to life, and displayed center screen was the note feature, activated, open. The note read simply, “Don’t”

He’d been hacked again. Ignoring his rant for the time being, he tidied up the edits on the blog post. This one, he noticed, had also had a few syntax fixes to it from his anonymous hacker. The title, “A Case of the Missing Lion” had been changed to, “A Look at the Lost Lion”. His breath caught. Sherlock had only barely tolerated his bent toward alliteration, but acknowledged his readers thrived on it. Many a discussion on the subject, John realized, had ended with Sherlock finally giving in. The prat did love an argument. Actually, more correctly, the prat did love winning an argument.

Heart pounding again, he wondered at the source of the hack. Dancing around something John did not want to acknowledge, that maybe Sherlock was at the heart of it, made him actually laugh out loud. That was it, he realized, he was completely nutters. Lost it. Someone else knew, or was just messing with him. He never should have opened this door, the blog, the draft of his personal feelings --

He read his tirade carefully, hearing and reading the pain in the words, the lost-ness. He wondered if whoever had been in his on-line account had read everything as well.

He changed passwords again, sticking with a simple IBISH. Signs had been all up and down Baker Street initially, to be slowly cleaned up, but the news of his innocence had sparked a few. I believe in Sherlock Holmes, John thought, heart heavy, _me, too, right up until he jumped._

Work at the clinic that day was precisely what John needed to break out of the confining perspective of his own thoughts. One patient was ill enough to require an ambulance, and John had the man all but completely stable when the rig arrived. There were tears and hugs from the mother of one of the children he’d diagnosed with early onset juvenile diabetes. There were well visits, sick visits, several injuries, and one patient he’d recommended to seek therapy from her depression by volunteering and helping others. When that woman left, feeling slightly more hopeful than when she’d arrived, he nearly snickered at himself. Away from the flat, he felt better, helping people, less focused on his own seemingly endless pain.

Nothing new that night, he’d grabbed dinner, watched a movie, met Mike late for pints at the pub. He finally felt less that he was losing his mind, went home, decided he’d had enough of the couch. Hopeful that the alcohol might help, he donned pyjamas, climbed into the downstairs bed, pulled up the coverlet formerly Sherlock’s, and breathed himself to sleep.

That night, his thoughts and dreams were haunted by images of the final night of the war, for him. Sniper fire had rang out in the camp. John’s training had found him almost instantly dressed, armed, and headed for the hospital before even consciously deciding he needed to. Reality blended with the dream, as John’s recollections were never abundantly clear. There were cries of “medic” from across the compound, and John turned his steps there, running, dodging, head low, helmet on, only a few soldiers out. Sudden jolt, hot stabbing searing blinding pain sent him crashing over, his breathing tight, gasping. Blood, in his dream, bubbled up in his throat, hemopneumothorax. He was drowning, ended up watching from above as a fellow medic found him, dragged inside the doors of the hospital, staunched the sucking chest wound, performed emergency needle decompression, suctioned out his mouth, head to the side as, in the dream, John choked and writhed, gasping. There was a mask, pain that was so intense it overwhelmed, he slept only to awaken in a MASH bed, pain all too real, being told of the events by buddies with pain in the telling. There had been oxygen flowing, pain more localized, hearing the background din of hospital activity in his periphery. He awoke from the dream, startled, recalling the shock of hearing about the casualties that terrible night, the lives lost, his own spared. His buddy Dylan, gone. Never a chance to say goodbye.

Along with the realization of what he was missing. The accident, the army flashbacks, the body of his friend sprawled on the sidewalk all had something that was present or absent. There was no middle ground, and his mind had finally put the pieces together. What was missing, with Sherlock, was the absolute dead look that Sherlock didn't have. Color, signs of circulation, the actual presence of blood in the tissues. John had seen plenty of dead men, all color gone, and he’d seen many injuries, too, where color had been pale but present. There was a big difference. And he’d put it together. 

It is this that, John feels, has eluded him since the fall. Dead guys have no color. They are pasty pale without signs of blood flow. Sherlock, what his damaged mind remembers about that afternoon, still had color. The blood around his head, just the volume of it alone, should have drained him of anything remotely pink hued. His color, by all rights, should have been nearly blank. Pale white gray. And it was not.

His army buddy Mitch’s visage swam in front of him as he recalled an awful, real discovery back in the ditch by the roadside one afternoon on patrol. Mitch, both legs blown nearly off, Mitch, his wife’s photo and their 4 children, sticking out of his pocket. Mitch’s eyes open, unseeing but initially conscious, surprised, a grimace of pain or shock. The immensely spreading pool of blood spurting out of severed arteries. Mitch had bled out in under a minute, sliding quickly, mercifully into unconsciousness as John touched his shoulder there in the ditch and talked to him, telling him help was on the way, he would be fine, both of them knowing he was lying. John had watched his color change from pale to a white-gray hue, life to life-less, breathing to apneic. Signs of circulation, John thinks. He cautiously steels himself to be wrong, against making a connection between his thoughts and Sherlock. Of course he is wrong.

That evening he opened a new blog entry, entitled it “A Case for SH - do not post” and proceeded to put into words about his signs of circulation question, if a person was going to survive a fall from 4 stories off a roof, how would a person make that happen, about how one could stage a living body and have it be pulseless, about how a body could have been plummeting to the ground face first yet end up curled up in its side. He noted the time, logged off, powered down, and questioned his sanity. He’d seen the guy dead, yes? His mind was unstable and he was just a bit frightened. It was impossible. Not to mention crazy.

He overslept the next morning, more out of tossing and turning until the wee hours, had just the briefest moments to open the blog, read comments from the previous day’s case write up, and did in fact see that his blog had been opened a mere 3 hours previously, obviously not his own log in. What if...? 

Work at the clinic that day was fraught with add on patients and walk-ins who all seemed to need more time than was available. John found the pace of the day, despite being surrounded by the ill, refreshing and a welcome distraction. At the end of the day, he had just leaned his head back for a moment in the office, feeling the fatigue settle over him when the receptionist poked her head in. “I’m out of here, you’ll lock up?” she said.

“Sure. Yeah,” he said, sitting forward again. “No problem.”

She turned, leaned back. “Oh, package came for you here, by courier. It’s on the front counter.”

He rolled his eyes. Marketing or something else equally useless. “Thanks.” Recognizing that he was indeed sleep-deprived and that relaxing would be dangerous unless he wanted to spend the night, he stood, gathered his case, turning out lights as he went. The padded bag that had been delivered was curiously unmarked except for his name. In slightly familiar handwriting. _Steady, there_ , he cautioned his runaway hallucinations and fantasies. He swallowed hard, wondering if visual hallucinations were an early sign or a late sign...

Lowering his bag, he held the package. He opened the package with a slightly trembling hand to find odd contents, an IBISH tee shirt, available in specialty boutiques a year ago, but he wondered who was still carrying them. Strange. Also in the bag was a hard rubber racquetball, maybe the size of a large walnut. It was not lost on John that his password was represented on the shirt. There was also a flash drive, unmarked, small sized, and nothing else.

The flat was not as threatening as before. The laptop called him, and he seated the flash drive. It ended up, he discovered as he opened it, being mp3 files. It was the music of Tchaikovsky. And a Brahms piece. Sherlock had loved the Tchaikovsky piece, but played the Brahms for John regularly. And an original recording, a piece Sherlock had written. John remembered it, and it carried him and lifted him up into the peaceful, calming place that music could transport. His eyes closed, the strains of the notes, bowing, fingering, John heard it all, with his eyes closed he could completely envision it as if he were there. He paused, feeling an ache when the last note faded. The track ended. The sound quality, he realized, was decent, but clearly not professional, as if it had been recorded casually. John's throat was dry, as he thought, picturing a tall violinist standing by a window.

John left the blog alone that night, instead, on the computer, he wrote a letter to Sherlock but did not start off with the typical salutation. Instead, he let his heart speak, starting with the phone call that was all lies, dammit. He wrote about being furious, about the senselessness of doing something for no reason, of being an idiot. His words slipped into an acknowledgement that people usually did things, even _terrible horrible hurtful things_ for a reason. John said that forgiveness was a difficult thing but that he could do it, perhaps, once he knew the reason. He started a paragraph about how empty he felt, about how bereaved, about his feelings. 

He expressed vague regret for things left undone and unsaid. His mind’s filter stopped his fingers from typing about anything physical or romantic, but his heart ached.

He wrote broken fragments of sentences about Sherlock coming back, about what he would say and not say, and that he would never pass up an opportunity again, to tell him some very important things. He worked in a sentence about the extremely strong urge to punch the idiot in the face. He commented that a punch in the face was the least of what he deserved. He also wrote of wanting physical contact, to touch and be touched. A hug, full on, solid body, something warm. For all the clinging I have done to the memories, he wrote, I deserve that as well, to cling, bond, absorb, adhere. 

While he typed, or in between typing, he stared a few times at the racquetball. He read the previous questions that he’d written the night before. The meaning clicked then, and John realized, perhaps, maybe, what the ball was for. He tried it, needing a few attempts before settling on the exact spot where, indeed, axillary artery occlusion would occur, completely obliterating a radial pulse.

He clicked on the mp3 files again, listened to the sweet sound of strings, wondered about the possibility of alternate reality and how unpleasant the space between real and delusional was becoming.

++

A few days later, a few long shifts at the clinic, with much quiet on the blog, to his dismay, John wrote up the short case about the homeless teens who broke into a kitchen and prepared a meal. He entitled it “Beggars can’t be Juicers” and he awoke to proofread one final time to find that a line had been drawn through the title in smart hypertext, underneath the words “no, just, no”. Some syntax was corrected. John blew out a breath as his wheels continued turning. He changed his edited text back to original, feeling slightly feisty, and posted the entry. A few of the grammar corrections he grudgingly left alone. He changed his password, something, really, in his mind, only Sherlock would have known: thisismynote. Two days later, he could tell that he’d been hacked again. A case entry that John hadn’t even begun yet had rough notes in the drafts folder, and it was re-telling the case from the car rental agency about the patron who faked his death. _Had Faked. His. Death._

No one else would have known about some of the details that had been written. John opened the draft folder, left it untitled, and typed underneath: I need to see you. He noted the date and time of the last log-in as the current time.

He powered the computer off, went to bed, heart pounding. He was still tossing when the alarm roused him from non-slumber. That same heart pounding continued as he booted up, checked the folder. There was a more current log-in of several hours previous, again, definitely not his own then, and a line added under the draft entry: If there is going to be punching involved, please bring gloves. John added a line of his own, it said only: We'll see.

He logged off again, opted to not put coffee onto his already adrenaline-surging endocrine system, and walked to work. Could it possibly be true? Could he actually, have finally, and delusionally, lost his friggin’ mind? Oh, the questions swirled until the patients began, and John’s physician role kicked in with abandonment.


	3. One More Miracle, please, for me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One More Miracle, coming up.

One more Miracle. Please.

A brief phone call from Molly asked him to meet after work, an actual voice telephone call, and she ended with a catch in her voice, some brokenness with a choked apology. “I’ll meet you at The Spotted Hog, then, at six?” he confirmed.

Six o’clock found him outside the cafe, until he was approached by an unassuming driver, who greeted him by name and ushered him into a car. He wondered about Molly, hoped she was ok, thought about texting her. The car headed out of town, and as they left the city limits, the driver handed him padded gloves, and no words are exchanged. He could feel his pulse pounding, thrumming, in the very tips of his fingers, his ears, threatening to pound out of his chest. He considers that this could be an elaborate ruse, a tease, a set-up.

In all likelihood, John’s rational, intelligent, black-or-white, hard facts told his spirit that it was fake. He briefly considers that he is wrong about it all, that this is absolutely not Sherlock, that he’s walking into something twisted and dangerous. He holds the gloves, remembering the punch me in the face comment before finding Irene, when he actually got to do it, the comments on the blog. He adds up the facts, comes up with heart-pounding insanity, tells himself that in all likelihood he will be home on Baker Street laughing at his romantic, sick-hearted self for believing the impossible. IBISH? Not bloody likely after tonight.

Or...

And then he pauses. If anyone could pull off a scheme like this, there is no doubt a short list. He remembers his deductions about the signs of circulation. Holding the gloves, remembering the pain of the last few years, the darkness, the despair, the realization too late that he loved the man who did the most hurtful thing to him, forcing trauma upon scars. The gloves are almost tingling in his hands, and he seriously considers if he wants to use them - bare knuckles would be so much more satisfying and injurious.

The driver stopped in an area outside London John had never been to or heard of. It was an old, stone, pointed church building. The old sign out front was faded, and the area was deserted except for a few cars in the parking lot between a courtyard of several buildings, rectory, office, and main building. John entered off the front walk through an unlocked door. The hall branched into 3 rooms, a chapel to the right, main hall into an open, vaulted cathedral, and left into an anteroom, a half dozen chairs facing a small lectern. The entire building, so far anyway, was deserted. He chose the path less traveled, to the left. He swallowed hard, mouth dry, as he saw the familiar profile. His intuition was spot on.

So many things stopped all at once. John's breathing, for one. Temporarily. The outside world, another, ceased to matter. Insulated within sanctuary of a place of worship, John resisted the urge to speak, as part of him still felt the image was an apparition and would vanish like a puff of smoke in front of his eyes. Again. His chest hurt at the thought. The rage and hurt and regret paled as he stepped closer, tentatively.

His head was turned to take in the slightest activity at the doorway, and John knew of course, that he’d been spotted. He was essentially as nondescript as he was capable of being. Black bomber jacket, charcoal gray scarf, collar down, dark jeans, boots. Hair short, curls mostly gone, eyes the same but concerned, tired. Sunglasses to blend in and hide striking blue eyes if needed, held loosely in his hand. Light was fading. Eye contact, then, finally. Their gaze held, expressions neutral, John took in a few cursory observations, thinner, older, wary. The drape of his jacket, probably carrying a concealed firearm, no bag, pack or case, probably not staying long.

“What, the collar’s not turned up? Must be that _damned head injury then."_ John was not shying away from contact, and a small part of him was still of the Oh-My-God-I’ve-gone-Nutters persuasion. Ah, conversation again, at last. John well recalled their last conversation, verbally, anyway. This is my note, goodbye John. and then his own voice screaming Sherlock!

Not surprisingly, he reached up, flipped the collar, glancing over with the very slightest upward movement of the right corner of his mouth.

“Thanks for the gloves,” John said then, coolly, firmly, quietly. _Bring your face over here so I can punch it, you wanker, because I’m furious with you._

“You’re going to put them on first?” _I deserve to be hit yet seek mercy from you._ He turned, slightly, but did not get up.

“A church, really?”

“Why not?” he queried. “Needed someplace off CCTV, private enough for bloodshed, should it come to that, and where a quiet conversation would not be completely out of place.” He met John’s eyes then, considered his steely demeanor, did not look away. “And, what, don’t believe in answered prayer? Not even for one. More. Miracle?” His eyes drifted closed then, breaking contact, as the meaning of Sherlock’s words settled in. He had uttered those, sobbing, in the cemetery over the apparent farce of a grave marker. He’d been there, then, at the cemetery, heard John’s heartbreak. Unspoken was the reminder that John had, unknowingly, asked for this.

John blew out the breath he didn't realize he’d been holding. “I saw you behind every tree, building, and corner for months.” He sat down in the next seat over, ample space between them. “Explain yourself,” he said, rigidly. As Sherlock opened his mouth, John held up a hand, “And before one word comes out, I want the truth. If you can’t speak the truth, at least do not lie. I would rather have silence.”

And so Sherlock did, quietly and with great intensity, start off by saying that he was dreadfully sorry for the pain he inflicted, and then related the set-up, explained the assassins who had threatened his friends, at Moriarty’s twistedness and suicide on the roof, at why he’d been missing all these months, chasing down leads and eliminating the last few threats to John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. “There is,” he explained, “one more to go. One very elusive, deadly, dangerous criminal from Moriarty’s web remaining.”

“Who else knows?” Sherlock made a face, and John recognized Sherlock’s desire to prevent more pain by answering that, moved on. Unhappily. It hurt, being excluded, being out of the inner circle that he and Sherlock had always had - or actually, apparently had not had, John noted - and he let it go. “Does Mycroft know there has been contact?”

“Not yet. But when things escalate, I will have to tell him so that he can upgrade security with the appropriate vigilance.”

“You have a timetable then?” John didn't particularly care, as long as it was soon and would bring a complete and final ending to the surreality of the block of time since Bart’s.

“The last player is doing precisely that, playing. There are some operatives...” he said a few more sentences, felt the disapproval, stopped. “Look, I know it was heartless, and I swear I will make this up to you.”

“Impossible.” John attempted to curb the emotion, thought about it, changed his mind. “You can’t. The damage has been done, you cannot undo these fucking years of pain, and while it may fade, there will always be ... Distrust perhaps?" He sighed, rolled his eyes, thought about letting Sherlock walk away from him, about him doing the walking away. He was grateful, at least that he’d had a moment of clarity - or insanity, if this meeting had been a ruse. He opened his case, obviously with him from the close of his clinic hours, pulled out a prepaid mobile phone, charged, only one number in contacts. “Completely anonymous. Mine is here.” He patted his lapel pocket, continued, “I thought perhaps it might come in handy. To stay in touch.” He grew serious, then, felt the heaviness in his chest. “It’s either that or I’m coming with you.”

He was already shaking his head. “You would be in grave danger. Being here has put you in enough danger. This was most foolish to see you, but I... “ He let the sentence trail off. “I’m sorry. I had to.” He looked down, then, pocketed the phone, noted, “Thanks, under the radar is the only way. You will continue business as usual, then?”

John nodded, stood, then, sensing he needed to be the one to walk away this time, and he wanted whatever small element he was able to control. Which left the last thing he’d spent much of the night thinking about. Sherlock stood, too, faced John.

“If this is where the personal injury starts, I think I'd rather be punched in the face than kneed...” Sherlock held out both hands in a posture of mild defensiveness, ready to step backwards if necessary. John shook his head slightly, smiled a sad smile, and watched Sherlock relax a bit.

John took a few steps, reached the taller man, knew that if he were to just say goodbye and walk away, he would continue to carry the regret. Reaching out both arms, he resolutely drew Sherlock into a full on embrace. He breathed deep, finding the scent minimally different, with a hint of his expensive soap and hair product. Arms tightened, two pairs, and John felt a moderate amount of what must have been relief at the confirmation that Sherlock was solid, real, not a ghost, not a hallucination. He angled back just enough to speak, and it was easier than he’d expected as there was no direct gaze or unnerving deducing going on. “I have had a long time to wonder if I should have done this a long time ago. I've had too long to regret not doing this, and, actually, the hell with it, I don’t even...”

John brought both hands up into Sherlock’s now much shorter curls, drew his lips down until they reached his, shared a somewhat tentative, gentle, caress of a kiss. John was pleased to feel Sherlock's immediate response under his touch, an intensity, muscles tensed, his entire proprioception angling toward and not away, his lips moving in synchrony, tenderness.

“If you are not okay with this, I am telling you now to move, get away from me, and stay out of my reach.” John's voice was quiet, serious. “If you stay, I am inferring consent.” While Sherlock may have been caught off guard initially, John was pleased to hear a sharp intake of breath and feel his head slant, leaning in. Lips parted slightly, their breath mingling, and John became aware of the firmness of both bodies as they solidly connected, heart rates accelerating, firmly pressing in with only layers of clothing in between. One tongue reached out, John’s, and another answered, Sherlock’s. Their chests moved apart just enough for a hand to make a foray down from side of the jaw where they’d been clinging over a shoulder, firmly leaning into a muscled pectoral, finding an already puckering nipple. John felt the pounding of cardiac muscle, his, Sherlock’s, directly and referred through precordial tissues and a few layers of fabric. The solidness, even too thin, was very comforting, John realized, pulling their bodies tighter again.

“This might be highly questionable behaviour in church, John.”

“I'm pretty sure you don't want to start a conversation with me about questionable behaviour.” John edged back slightly, enough to place both hands along Sherlock's face. Eyes open, their mouths came together again, heated, desperate, an exploration of intent and lust. And dominance, and possessiveness, and a promise, at least in John’s mind.

“Go. Take care of what you must.” John pulled away, reluctant but resolute, and stepped away, not trusting either of them, having felt swollen evidence of desire pressing against him and knowing full well what was beneath his own zipper. “Then come back to me, and we. Will. Finish. This.”

John looked around then, avoiding Sherlock’s steady gaze. He was reluctant to walk away yet. Silence ensued, then, “Mycroft knows, obviously. Molly?”

Sherlock nodded. "I had her call you to set this up."

“Your parents, obviously.” Another nod. “Greg?”

“No.”

“Mrs Hudson?” he asked, accompanied with a small smirk.

“God, no.”

Sighing, John said, “If this is supposed to be business as usual, I don’t think I can stay much longer. Baker Street is monitored, of course. And I’m not much of a socialite these days.”

“My driver will drop you off at the pub. Have a drink, chat up the barmaid.” He gestured dismissively, as if it were unimportant. “I would like to see you again.”

John realized, as he’d suspected, that a line in the sand might have to be drawn, and shook his head in the negative. “Not till it’s over.” He looked up to find bright blue eyes staring him down. “I can’t do it again. Stay in touch, fine, text me, but the next time I see you in the flesh, I do not plan on letting go again.”

With that, Dr. John Watson shouldered both his bag and his courage, turned on his heel, and left the church building. As suspected, he only waited a few minutes before a car slowed to a stop at the street.

A chime from within his gear signaled an incoming text. He counted to ten before pouncing on it.

**-You have significantly turned up the heat on completion. -SH**

He waited until he was home on Baker Street, after a shot of whiskey at the pub, to answer and hoped the wait seemed interminable.

**-Indeed. _Completion?_ -JW**

Immediately, **-Don’t be crass. -SH**

**-Oh I’m not. Completely intentional. -JW**

**-Unlimited text messages, I hope? -SH**

**-Of course. -JW**

Later that night, John listened to his new favorite string selections as he checked the blog - nothing new - and changed the password using a program that would really never be hacked. He wrote the new one down, put the paper in his wallet, and fell asleep some time later clutching the cheap, anonymous mobile phone.

++

Later that day, **-You changed the password. -SH**

**-Yes, you need to focus. -JW**

The next blog post about one of Sherlock's previously unpublished cases involved Sherlock's ultimate solving of the case by a dirty footprint in which the perpetrator had apparently walked through a farmyard pasture, tracking bits of manure into the crime scene. The size of the boot (size 14), angle of the step (crooked), approximate weight of the criminal (21 stone), were useful, but it was the content and color of the filth on the boot that led Sherlock to the farm. John entitled the blog entry, "The origin of feces". Hits and comments on the post over the next days continued to increase exponentially, including one anonymous comment that just said, "no, just, no."

John responded in the comments with, "my blog, my rules".

And then contact, text messages as well as the discreet blog comments, abruptly stopped. John grew quieter as he wondered what was up, waiting for resolution, wondering how it would happen. The anonymous mobile phone became almost a talisman for John as he held it, checked it, charged it, and almost willed it to chirp. Waiting, he thought, was bloody near impossible.

Almost a week later, John was met by a car that was not its typical empty transport that would deliver him home from work. Mycroft waited in the back seat.

“John.”

He leveled a steady gaze back. The greeting choice indicated an ally’s role, more friendly at least, and John was in no rush as he waited quietly.

“I understand you had a meeting.”

“I thought it went rather well. It could have involved gunfire, bloodshed, and hysterics. Instead, it offered an olive branch and an ultimatum of sorts.”

“I heard.” He tapped the divider behind the driver and they drove off. “Effective immediately, I would advise you to use utmost caution in your daily routine. Trust no one.” He looked away, then, carefully keeping his expression neutral. “There has been some travel involved, and I am trying to restore contact. It has been a number of days since there has been an update.”

John swallowed hard, knowing his own phone has been completely silent going on day number 6 now. His mouth was dry, palms sweaty, and he recalled the parting view of Sherlock in the church as John walked away, resolute, focused, serious.

“I don’t know where he is,” Mycroft said, as the car slowed to a halt outside Baker Street. The front seat passenger got out then, opened John’s door, walked him inside.

++

John received a text the next morning, and it was anything but comforting.

**I’m in need of a ride. 4271 Crooked Billet Lane, Eddington.**

It was unsigned. John left the mobile alone and used his own to call Mycroft, who answered on the first ring, listened intently, said, “I’m sending a car.”

++

En route to Mycroft’s, John’s mind did something it hadn't before. Eyes closed, he allowed himself to recall vividly the scene in the church, of the emotion he’d felt as he saw Sherlock for the first time in so very long, seated, quiet, real, alive. His mind recalled the comfort of the hug, the warmth of the kiss, the solidness of the body pressed against him. He breathed, slowly, not quite praying, Please, please, beseeching the edges of his mind for peace, resolution. As clearly as he could feel, sense, hear the stolen moments in the church, he felt as tangibly as anything else a sharp, searing pain above his left elbow on his upper arm, tearing muscle, burning as if stung by a highly potent, deadly wasp swarm. His right hand came up over the area, across his body, expecting to feel a foreign body, knife, bleeding wound. His hand came back clean of course, his arm outwardly intact. The images from the church faded and became only pain, dizziness, and a sense of impending doom.

He found himself wondering if this was comparable to Sherlock’s mind palace, and realized, if it was, that a mental location like that was completely, presently, a very awful place if these negative associations were any indication. He steeled his thoughts against any further meanderings and instead wondered how they would be able to get him out safely. He wondered if, left to his own, if Sherlock would have added “could be dangerous” to the text message, just for kicks.

++

Mycroft was, not surprisingly, in front of a bank of computer screens with one ear pressed to a phone. It sounded like there had been no progress. John pulled out the phone, showed Sherlock’s brother the text. As if it would have been any different in the 47 times John had already read it. And quoted it to Mycroft. It had been sent only fourteen minutes previously. Not too long, then. Mycroft dictated a response, then, “ **When, now? Are you ok?** ” and he asked John not to sign it, to hopefully indicate message received.

There was no answer, and the two men, along with some of the brains and brawn at Mycroft’s disposal discussed possibilities. John was ready to go, armed with both weapon and communication device, but Mycroft was unwilling to allow that until there was another message. There was an exchange of steel and hatred and strength. Gray met blue, stubborn against determined, bereaved confronting stoic. Mycroft stared, holding and evaluating John’s eyes, finally looked away.

The mobile chirped again, almost immediately, a cheap, incoming text tone. “ **Anytime. Yes.** ”

John heard Mycroft’s uttered curse under his breath, knowing the lie sent under duress, and he sank into a chair. They both turned as another man entered the room. “Here’s satellite images at the address from an hour ago.” He pointed to the screen as he typed. “There are five people in the building that we can tell.”

“ **On my way.** ” was the text crafted by Mycroft and sent by John.

++

Much to John’s frustration, he was not allowed to go, and, after discovering what transpired, he was aware that Mycroft had been protecting him, probably following a directive from his brother. The man who did go wore John’s jacket, and was approximately John’s build, coloring, and stature. Upon arrival to the address, shots were fired, and backup stormed the building to find that only one man had been left there, a decoy with harmful intent. The man was shaken up but not injured. Another text came through on John’s phone, then, as Mycroft spoke with the man, on a real-time phone update.

“ **Game over.”** John’s heart sank. They’d come so far. The house was being searched for clues, and there were apparently no signs of anyone in the group. Or bloodstains. John wasn't sure if that was encouraging news.

++

John had packed a bag when Mycroft had contacted him the first time, figuring it could be a quick summons, so he had supplies, his medical kit, but not enough patience in the world to allow for sitting back letting his fate play out in the hands of crazy people. Who were holding Sherlock. And Mycroft, who was well connected, smart, and extremely patient in this circumstance. But annoying as ever, and more than once, when John expressed opinion or impatience, he was met with hostile eyes.

“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said finally, “we will find him. And he may already have ended this. He has not been caught unawares.”

The office there had been set up as a command center, and Mycroft briefed John on what they knew, which wasn’t much. He waited, the phone was silent, and finally, surprisingly, he was shown a room just down the hall and assured that if anything happened, they would fetch him.

He didn’t think it possible, but did finally fall asleep, only to have someone shake him awake a short time later.

“They’ve got him. Come!”

John grabbed his pack, sliding into shoes quickly, and followed. Mycroft was waiting in the helicopter, and said, “Operative is with him now. We’re about ten minutes out.” It was the longest ten minutes John could remember. Another communication came through moments before John sensed they had started a descent. Mycroft’s gaze flicked to John, having uncharacteristically lowered his guard and revealing the topic of conversation. When the call disconnected, he said only, “He’s asking for you.”

John, Mycroft and two others, followed another operative who’d met them down the path toward an out of the way cottage. John held onto the fact that he was conscious, able to communicate, clearly not in active danger. He hoped, wondering if he wanted John the person or needed John the doctor.

Soon enough, Mycroft entered the doorway of the house in question, his operative there to greet them and provide scene security. John, right behind, surveyed the location quickly, army training impossible to avoid in a possible combat situation, and he took in the three bodies on the ground, two of them dead, the third a round balding man, breathing raggedly but conscious and bleeding from a leg wound. He would survive. One of Mycroft’s entourage stopped there to clear any weapons, while Mycroft and John proceeded to the back of the house. Sherlock was standing at the window, his arm - left, just above the elbow - a bloody mess of ragged sleeve, bloody forearm, wrist, starting to dry on long fingers. But he was thinly grinning to see them, and John felt his chest ease as he approached, already assessing injury and sliding his medical kit off his shoulder.

“This is over, then, yeah?” John queried, pulling at Sherlock’s shredded sleeve to visualize the injury. There was a light next to the window, and he gently eased him at an angle that allowed John to see.

“It is.” Clear blue eyes focused back on him as he lifted his gaze from the arm to Sherlock’s very pale face. He could see pain just under the surface in the set of his jaw and the lines around his eyes, but the clarity was a positive sign. He flicked back down to the arm. “Bullet went through, then?”

“Appears so. You need to sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“But I’m shaky. Sit.” John muttered, stupidly.

“No you’re not.”

Mycroft strode back in, then, pulled himself up to his full height, and said, simply, “Sherlock.”

John grabbed a chair, waited for Sherlock to sit down while he gathered a few supplies. “The area is secure? Safe to work here?” he asked in Mycroft’s direction.

“All are accounted for?” Mycroft asked Sherlock, who nodded. He inclined his head at John, then, apparently agreeing, and he stepped back into the other room. John wasn’t sure if he just didn’t want to see any further blood or if he actually had business to attend to. Outside, John heard a few cars arriving, along with what must have been a police car judging by the flashing light bar’s odd light pattern as it came through the windows.

Once John had removed the shirt and cleaned both entrance and exit wounds, the bleeding started up in earnest, not entirely a bad thing, he knew, to clean thoroughly. “This might need more than I can do here,” he commented, holding pressure again.

There was a slight smirk on Sherlock’s face, and John caught it. “What?”

“You’re a surgeon. Fix it.”

He didn’t justify himself with any further words, just a narrowing of the eyes at his former flatmate seemed enough to wipe the smirk off his face. “It would serve you right if I dropped the vial of lidocaine and it shattered on the floor.”

“You’re too professional to do that intentionally.”

“You hope.”

“Also,” Sherlock’s voice dropped lower, his words only for John, “You did promise that you have no intention of letting me go.”

Blue eyes met steely gray eyes, and John was the one to look away, back at the wound which had finally stopped bleeding enough to suture. “Let’s do this, then.”

They end up staying just long enough to numb, suture, bandage, and for John to refuse to allow Sherlock to be interviewed by the local police. He probably was completely able to do so, but John wasn’t ready to hear yet, and he wanted to be sure that Sherlock and Mycroft had a few minutes to align their stories if necessary. Finally, by the time John was rolling a bandage around his bicep and securing it, the building was empty except for Mycroft and two of his employees. The bodies had been removed, the injured man sent to hospital, and local law enforcement had left.

John left the room, finally, to wash his hands again, and by the time he returned, clearly the Holmes brothers were at odds, judging by the look of displeasure on Mycroft’s face. John held out a hand to Sherlock, then, who took it and allowed himself to be led to the sink to get cleaned up. He was a bloody mess, but in typical fashion, cleaned up pretty well. John ripped the bloody sleeve completely off, the rest would have to wait until they were elsewhere. John didn’t even know where that meant. Obviously not Baker Street.

Mycroft spoke up then. “John, thank you. We have arranged for a car to return you to Baker Street.”

Both Sherlock and John spoke at the same time. “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is where the relationship will heal along with the injuries. Some scars, however, John carries deeply on the inside. Perhaps they are almost invisible even to him.
> 
> Chapter 4 will be up tomorrow! Chapter 4 will involve some of the fun of new beginnings, and yes, there is a punch in the face (it is a beautiful thing, so deserved, anyone know a good doctor?)
> 
> Chapter 5 - good feels and some fun.


	4. John takes care of Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long winded chapter that picks up when John and Sherlock are reunited and ends in the sitting room on Baker Street. There is an empty cup of tea, a violin, and a long coat. And two men, both of them seeking ease from various hurts. They are going to find peace and satisfaction. Yes, satisfaction. *snickers*

Sherlock dismissed Mycroft with an imperial wave of the hand. “Go away. I’m headed to Lisbon Drive a few days. John will be staying there, too.”

“Suit yourself. Daniel can drive you both then.”

John steadied his arm as they gathered John's supplies and got into the back of the car. Mycroft said farewell, that he would be in touch tomorrow, and he wished them a good evening as he closed the door. The driver transferred the rest of John’s things then, and they drove slowly off.

John phoned Sarah, left a message, rather succinctly, that he was going to be out of commission for a few days. He was grateful that it was a voicemail, much easier, less complicated. Clinic days made this last minute schedule change easier, as appointments were always same day. They would just schedule less of them.

“How long a drive?” John asked, watching Sherlock carefully as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The local anaesthetic should buy him a bit more comfort until it started to wear off. And despite threatening to not use any, John had probably been a bit generous infiltrating the injured tissue with local anaesthetic.

“Half hour.”

John sensed more than observed the proverbial egg shells that they were walking on. “You ok? Anything else injured?”

“Just my pride. He caught me off guard.”

“Distracted, then?” He couldn’t hide the bit of amusement in his voice nor the satisfaction he felt inwardly.

“John.” When John responded with a slight Hmmm in his throat, Sherlock continued, “Shut up.”

“Not bloody likely.” They rode the rest of the way in silence, despite what he’d replied.

Lisbon Drive ended up being a complex of small flats, and Sherlock’s was located in the rear of the first building they came to. John handed his bags to the driver, who reached out for them, while he walked next to Sherlock, who, with weak steps, ambled through the front door once John unlocked it with Sherlock’s key.

The driver put the bags down, offered any additional help (turned down), and left (bloody time, John felt).

The flat was two rooms and a bedroom, sparsely furnished, and John gave Sherlock the choice of the couch or the bed. Not answering out loud, he nodded his head toward the bedroom and allowed himself to be assisted. Once seated on the bed, John took charge. He removed shoes then socks, the bloody shirt, discovered a line of pale scars traversing Sherlock's back. He sucked in a breath, touching them gently. Sherlock found his voice. “They're old. Cost of obtaining information.”

John ran a gentle, probing hand along the deepest, assessing scar, angle, and tenderness. They were old, healed, probably caused by a leather thong or whip, “Or the cost of protecting your friends.” John found a soft tee shirt and helped him into it. “Stand up. You need the loo?” He shook his head, eyes finally looking fatigued, whether from blood loss or lack of sleep or stress, John didn’t particularly care. “Stand up anyway, get your trousers off.”

“God, who cares? Leave them.” He looked exhausted, John saw, and truly cared not a whit.

“They’re _bloody_ , stand up.” John guided him standing, gave him a shoulder to hold with his non-injured side, removed the trousers, eased him back down.

“You’re a pain in the arse.”

“Shut up.” John lifted his feet into the bed, tucked him in, adjusted the pillow, and said, “You will drink something before you fall asleep.”

“No.”

“Fine.” John returned to the great room, grabbed his bag, their mobile phones, his medical supplies, and returned to Sherlock. Tourniquet, IV start kit, Sherlock didn’t even protest much as John cannulated a vein and rigged a liter of IV fluids to infuse, hanging the bag from a coat hanger he caught on the open closet door. He'd improvised much more back in combat, but the concept was the same - make do with what you've got at hand. Sherlock’s breathing evened out, asleep, and John bunkered down for the night. Doors locked, pyjamas, he sat for long minutes in the chair, just watching Sherlock’s pale skin, his chest rise, the thready pulse at his neck. The IV rate adjusted easily, he allowed the first bag to go in at a pretty good clip as he kept watch. The second liter, he slowed way down, his own eyes heavy. He slid into the bed behind Sherlock, one hand on his chest, the man’s injured arm elevated on a pillow, and turned out the light. Dim light from the other room filtered in, just barely. He welcomed the darkness, then, and tried to exhale. It took a few tries. The heaviness in his chest swelled as the fact that they were together again rushed in, then, and, comforted by the presence - finally - of his best mate, he dozed.

A few hours later, John awakened, Sherlock’s breathing still very even and slow under his hand. He stretched his fingers, moving his hand instead to the wrist laying closest to John, The pulse rate was slower, finally, and John could barely make out the drip of the IV bag. All on schedule, no rush. He took in the dark hair against a pale forehead, long eyelashes peacefully closed, face relaxed and youthful in slumber. A surge of emotion welled up then, and his fingers caressed the wrist he was holding, barely noticeable.

Some time later, well before dawn, Sherlock shifted slightly in bed, probably aware of pain and stiffness from laying still. John leaned across the bed, checked the IV site, adjusted the IV rate, the bag more than half done. If Sherlock didn't wake up with a full bladder, he would hang the final bag he’d brought. John hoped it was soon, that he would rouse, as there was a shadow of bloody drainage on the dressing that John wanted to investigate. He lay on his side, under the covers, wide awake, watching as signs of wakefulness appeared slowly.

He got his wish. Blue eyes opened, looked around slightly unfocused, puzzled, taking in an IV bag dripping (John was glad that was a sight that caused minor confusion, hopefully not an every day occurrence). A grimace appeared that clued John in that Sherlock definitely did not realize John was in the room, as he nearly never showed any indication of pain unless he was in bad shape. John watched as Sherlock stretched his back, arching upward, halted by his injury.

“You’re liable to be pretty sore,” John said, softly. Later he would offer pain medication. As a reward for eating, perhaps. Sherlock’s head snapped to the side to look, and John smiled. “ ‘Morning.”

“What is the meaning of this?” he let his eyes show distaste at the IV. His voice was quiet, strained.

“Dehydration, blood loss, refusal of fluids. Pick one.” John watched as Sherlock intended to lay like he often did, an arm thrown over both eyes. He found his left injured, out of the question, and his right tethered to an antecubital IV. The frustration on his face would have been comical under different circumstance. John slid out of bed, came around to help. “Turn,” he said, adjusting the pillow while tugging him toward lying on his uninjured side, and, surprisingly, Sherlock complied. John adjusted the IV, slid the other pillow under the injured arm, brushed at a stray curl. The tender gesture was not lost on either of them. “Better?”

Sherlock blinked his eyes in an answer. John switched on the light, as it was still too dark out to see properly. While he had a captive patient, he was going to monopolize the opportunity. Within moments, the dressing was changed, all bleeding stopped, and he perched in the chair in the room while Sherlock watched him with wide, calm blue eyes.

“You can get back in bed if you want,” he muttered. “I’m ok.”

John wanted to do just that, slide in behind him, his chest up against Sherlock’s back, an arm slung around his waist, indulging his wish to cling, hold, chase away fear of Sherlock’s leaving. He also wanted to get tea, offer sustenance, but was nervous of even stepping out of the room.

“I’m not going anywhere, John.” His low, quiet baritone brought back nausea. _This is my note. Goodbye, John_. He forced his mind to other things. And then forced his legs to carry him out into the other room. He shook his head at his emotional response to merely being out of eye-shot, noting elevated heart rate, shaking legs, ears completely attuned to the faintest noise that might indicate a problem, his skin prickly, his mind on high alert. Forcing a few deep breaths, he settled himself, attentive to the matter at hand.

By the time John returned with two mugs of steaming tea, Sherlock was asleep again, skin pale against the pillow. He sipped his tea, dug out the last bag of IV fluid to spike, and waited. The chair became uncomfortable, he slid back into the bed, exhausted, lulled to sleep by the warmth of another body and the security of an arm slid just barely under the sleeping form beside him. Another liter of fluids and a few hours sleep seemed to be a turning point. Had Sherlock more dexterity with his injured arm, it was likely he would have removed his own IV in his urgency to empty his bladder.

“Get rid of this,” he grumbled, initially resisting the assistance of a readily available and trying not to hover (much) John.

John did so, applied gauze over the site, took Sherlock’s elbow as he sat up. When he moved to stand immediately, John growled quietly at him, “Give yourself a minute,’ but then steadied his friend as he stood.

Not surprisingly, Sherlock shook loose of John only to have his knees wobble as they moved, but eventually John was standing arms crossed outside the door, mostly closed, waiting impatiently and listening for a tell-tale head thumping meaning that Sherlock in his stubbornness had passed out. Pig-headed git. It would serve him right to need more IV fluids, and John’s dark humor kicked in, deciding he would use the biggest IV cannula he had on the chance a restart was needed.

John heard water running, the use of a toothbrush, and finally the door opened. Sherlock was looking slightly worse for wear but still upright.

“Soon as you eat something, I have pain medicine.” Pale eyes stared back at him over a clenched jaw and John could tell there was an inner debate raging on what battles to pick. “You know you missed this.” John wondered if he was jesting a bit too soon but was actually rewarded by the slight twinkle in Sherlock’s expression.

“Nag.”

“My pain pills, my rules.”

They passed the remaining few morning hours in relative ease, both eating what John scraped together in the meager kitchen, texting Mycroft a scant shopping list, and finding a website that streamed classic movies. As there was scant lounging area in the great room, with Sherlock’s books and gadgets strewn around an already cramped space, they opted to lounge in the bed with the laptop between them. It worked out easier, John realized, as he glanced over more than once to find Sherlock snoozing. John showered while Sherlock slept. The pain pills had helped, and he was still asleep when Mycroft arrived, pantry items accompanying him. He told John he would return with law enforcement tomorrow at noon to discuss things with his brother.

He insisted on poking his head to see Sherlock (still asleep) and took in the state of the room. “Cozy,” he said quietly, an eyebrow raised, as he left. John ignored him.

Dinner was shepherd’s pie, John’s choice and one of the classic and easy dishes from their former lives together, which seemed like both yesterday and forever ago. After Sherlock had picked at his just enough to keep John from fussing, John took plates to the kitchen and returned to find Sherlock very slightly flexing his injured arm with a dissatisfied scowl on his face.

“What?” John didn’t think it was showing signs of infection, and expected it to heal rather well, in typical Sherlockian fashion, so he puzzled over the reaction.

“My stupidity.” John had learned to be patient when he wanted information, and was not disappointed. “I failed to take into account the fourth man’s return...” Many a discussion had started off just this way, with Sherlock’s impossibly high expectations of perfection obviously unobtainable.

“You’ll heal. Had you eaten, slept at all, in the days prior?”

Clearly, judging by his expression, he thought John’s question ridiculously mundane, as if food and rest were not basic human needs or a requisite for quick thinking or reflexes. Rather than speak, he leaned back against the pillow, closed his eyes. “Pick a movie?” he asked, finally.

“It can wait.” John hedged, unsure of where conversation ought to go. “So there were four people yesterday, I only saw three.”

“Mycroft’s agent got him. Outside.”

“So this is completely over?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have plans for announcing your return from the dead?”

“I was thinking you would take care of that.”

“I was thinking Greg,” John suggested. “But there will be consequences for you no matter how it comes out.”

“Put it on that ridiculous blog, then. And seriously, what were you thinking, _JUICERS?_ That was bad even for you.”

“It was clever,” John insisted.

“Infantile.”

“Piss off.”

“You kept my other changes.”

“Your magnificent brain is cluttered with grammatical radar for minuscule errors.” There was a lengthy pause then, smiles fading. “Are you coming home to Baker Street then?”

Eyes met, held, serious non-verbal communication that John was frightened to analyze. “Are you staying at Baker Street then?”

“Yes.” John had no hesitation. His hand snaked out, reaching for Sherlock’s, and he let his fingers rest around his wrist. There was warmth, comfort, familiarity. And the beginnings of tingling skin.

“You talked about _finishing this_ , that day in the church.”

“Yes.”

“How long have you known?”

“Known what, exactly?”

“That there was something unfinished.”

“When you disconnected the call, from the roof, and tossed the phone aside. I never got a chance to say or do all the things I wanted. Regret is a terrible thing, you know.” He realized Sherlock’s fingers were sliding along the side of his arm. “How long have you known?”

“When you didn't pitch a fit when I crashed your date with Sarah. You didn't really want her.” He looked over, saw John’s expression, relaxed but serious. “And many times since then.”

“We wasted a lot of time.” John withdrew his hand, then. “There’s no rush, no time table. You have some healing to do.” These serious conversations were tiring, exhausting, and just unpleasant. But necessary. John forged ahead. “I might have some healing to do, too.” His voice cracked, and he couldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. Refused to look in his direction. Warm hand reached out in search of another holding of John’s leg this time, his arms out of reach.

“My thoughts about getting shot were first that this was going to be damned inconvenient for us.”

"You mean after ouch, and holy shit that was close, I would think."

Sherlock smirked, raised an eyebrow, lifted a shoulder.

“It’s only an arm, not like you’re completely incapacitated.” John stretched then, allowed the smirk time and space. There was a hyper-awareness of the other, a tension as their limbs continued in contact. “I would, however, like the opportunity to leave you.. somewhat... oh, _pleasantly_ incapacitated. When you’re better.”

Conversation turned to other more casual things, and John chose a movie. The rest of the evening was spent in comfortable companionship, punctuated only by a bit of hand holding, and eventually, more pain medication, and a much more restful night than the previous one had been.

++

John awoke early, left Sherlock asleep in the bed, showered and had tea before he even heard stirring again from the bedroom. The injury was more swollen today, when John took the dressing down, but overall looking better. He herded Sherlock into the shower, offered to help and immediately received an icy glare. By the end of the day, John suspected, he was going to be headed toward miserable and bored. At least, he thought, cringing, they had his brother’s visit to look forward to. Heaven help the whole lot of them.

By the end of Mycroft’s visit, there was a very solid and very quickly moving plan in place. John and Sherlock would return to Baker Street after another day or so. They would tell Mrs. Hudson, break the news to her gently, summon Greg Lestrade, and there would be a press conference scheduled at NSY, for the day after that. They discussed a blog announcement. Sherlock suggested that John take a leave of absence from the clinic; John didn’t think it was a good idea. They discussed, in jest, a holiday abroad.

After Mycroft left, Sherlock gestured to the small flat. “I can sleep on the couch, if you prefer, John. I do not need you hovering.”

John was already shaking his head negatively. “There is a relatively large portion of my brain that is expecting you to disappear if left out of my sight for long.” John found that confession actually felt pretty good, revealing a vulnerability, and that Sherlock’s expression was serious, melancholy. Maybe absence improved his disposition. He dismissed that thought quickly, thinking it unlikely. “You will indulge me in this, and we can share a room, a bed. I have earned the right.”

“I am concerned that you are still angry, and I am not wishing to do something that will result in further bodily injury. _My_ further bodily injury.”

“I'm not going to smother you in your sleep. But there’s not a doubt in my mind that you will tick me off, probably pretty soon, and we will have it out, yeah?” He picked up his tea, found the cup empty, rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s slight snicker at his error. “It could end rather well if we do this correctly.” His arm reached out, Sherlock’s meeting it halfway. When had a casual touch become something so electric? “And in the right timing.”

Sherlock’s head tilted slightly, as if pondering that. John realized it much be a genetic Holmes trait, as Mycroft did it too, but the other direction. “Are you suggesting that I could hasten the process intentionally?”

“I am suggesting that you wait until your arm is somewhat better.”

The following day found Sherlock, as John suspected, bored and irritable. When he complained about almost everything, John laid into him that he had better get a grip on himself and stop being such a wanker.

Sherlock retaliated with a comment about John’s ridiculous blog and easily entertained, simple mind.

When the argument continued along the same vein and beyond - to both of their credits, neither mentioned the two years spent apart or the deception that preceded it - then finally ended in John telling Sherlock to “Go fuck yourself,” and Sherlock echoing the same back at John. John stood just outside the bedroom as Sherlock stood in the kitchen area, and they both glowered at the other.

It was John who finally laughed first, disengaging from the fight. “Well, there’s stage 3 of married sex, right there.”

“What?”

“Stage 3, you know, stage one being all over the house sex, stage two being bedroom sex, and stage 3 being yelling “fuck you” at each other from across the room?”

Sherlock’s expression bordered on amused. “Did I miss stages 1 and 2, then?”

John leveled a gaze at him. “How’s the arm?”

He answered thoughtfully, “It’s okay.”

“Then I’m fine working backwards on the stages then.”

++

And so the direction of their lives changed yet again as they ended up in the bedroom. Sherlock knew John would just fret about his injury, and so he allowed John to ease him toward the bed, sat down. He categorized John’s heart rate, skin temperature, pupil dilation, and the way his jeans filled out in front, and he had even reached a state of arousal he hadn't felt since the church. Lips met, tentative, warm, seeking. John pulled off his own shirt before turning to Sherlock’s tee shirt.

The bandage caught his eye, intact, white against pale skin. John slid Sherlock’s arm out and away, held it there, his eyes and then fingers drawn to Sherlock’s mouth as he kissed again, tongues meeting, seeking dominance, exploring. He eased his shirt up over his head, leaving it along the arm he didn’t particularly think Sherlock should be using much anyway, and returned to his mouth. John tasted mildly of sweat, desire, and Sherlock found his lips slightly swollen, searching. When Sherlock brought his hands up to touch John’s face, a moan escaped, breathing the name that John had longed to hear from him. There was a primal need to touch, and John let himself indulge, finally, exploring eyebrow, curls, cheekbones, his thumb rubbing over bowed lips, smiling when Sherlock’s tongue then teeth reached out to nip at John’s fingers. John pulled at Sherlock’s jaw, bringing their mouths together again. the heat increasing slightly. John eased himself down on an elbow, hand drifting down to collarbone, warmly, the heel of his hand touching already erect nipple over tensed pectoral. John slid his hand to Sherlock’s waist, felt the man arch up, seeking further - lower - touch.

“I don’t think this is meant to be a long drawn out event,” Sherlock hissed, his hand coming up to pinch at John’s nipple slide quickly and urgently into John’s waistband.

“No. Probably not.” His hand stilled near Sherlock's thumping heart. “Not this time anyway.”

When Sherlock muttered something about that being a pointless waste of time, John filed that trivia away. It would be an education showing Sherlock about the finer points to prolonging pleasure, delaying gratification.

John leaned up then, divested Sherlock of the remainder of his clothing, and let his mouth slide from jaw, travelling over the places his hand had already visited, pausing to note Sherlock’s sensitive nipple, the way his belly clenched when he breathed into the line of hair that started at his navel, the way he sucked in a breath then held it tightly when John took him in his mouth. When Sherlock acted as if he wanted to sit up, to pull John up toward his head again, John stilled him with a strong, steady hand and a glare. He added his hand to what his mouth was unpracticed enough to cover, wondering and hoping this was feeling as heavenly to Sherlock receiving as it was to John in the giving. Moments later, he was warned with a cautionary hand as well as a breathy, “Oh my god I’m going to...” and then John pulled away quickly as he carried through on his threat, hot warmth pulsing over Johns hand, wrist, Sherlock’s stomach.

His own cock ached as Sherlock reached for him, dragging his hand through the sticky warmth on his own belly before closing his fist around John. His John. Even keenly aroused, John kept a restraining hand on Sherlock when he attempted a caress with the injured left arm. Instead, he brought his own hand over Sherlock’s as it surrounded him, and his gasps seemed loud in the flat as Sherlock held him close. “Ah, oh my, I can’t”, and then “ _Sherlock!!_ ”

++

The return to Baker Street ended up being logistically smooth. Mrs. Hudson, conveniently, was out. The car from Mycroft’s garage had loaded Sherlock’s meager belongings, their recent gatherings, and the two men. By the time they carried things inside, it was only a few minutes before John and Sherlock were standing alone, awkwardly, in the sitting room. Baker Street. Complete again. John was revisited by the grief, the memories, the pain that had been associated with the flat, and oh, it hurt. He forced his mind to the present.

Sherlock looked around the room, looking slightly lost as he absently rubbed the bandaged arm, and John asked him if he was upset, or needed some time alone.

“No, but it’s... well, just been a long time.” He took in the room with sharp eyes. “You had a bag packed, when Mycroft called.”

“Of course. And you know this...?”

“Not much going on here. You were waiting.” He sat down stiffly, with furrowed brow, into an easy chair. “Carpet marks by the door, square. Bag. And you didn’t really like it here.”

“I’m not going to say you’re amazing. You knew that from the computer you kept hacking.” Sherlock had a snarky look to him, then. A pleasant, snarky look. “I was very unsettled here without you, in the beginning. Slept on the couch for the first month, maybe.”

“Where are you sleeping now?”

“In the bedroom. Hoping you'll join me.” His voice carried all the bravado of a confident man, a soldier, a physician. A man who was not going to be trifled with or hesitate. No regret.

John said something about making tea, crossed into the kitchen. On his way past the table, the IBISH T shirt was there along with the racquetball. “I’m never wearing this, by the way. And you can take this ball,” John said, an irritable tone to his voice, picking it up and tossing it at Sherlock who snatched it out of the air with alarming dexterity, “and blow it up or set fire to it or dissolve it in one of your acids.”

Had John any idea of the sparkly eyed smile he would have received at the mention of blowing something up, he might have done it sooner. Sherlock, he’d always thought, was a handsome man with striking features. When he smiled, when he turned on the charm, he was breathtaking. He wondered, briefly, if blowing up a little racquetball was going to be enough to placate him. The flat had been mostly cleaned of combustible, flammable, dangerous elements. John sighed, realizing this would likely change. Boundaries would need to be established. Although, he considered, now that they knew Mycroft owned the building, it might be a bit more fun to consider destructive activities.

“You should call Lestrade.”

“You’re up for it?”

“By the time he’s here, I should have a plan for blowing up the racquetball. Maybe while he’s holding it?”

“You realize he carries a gun.”

“So do you.”

“You should treat us both more carefully, then.”

Lestrade returned John’s text that he would stop by after work, which left them a few hours. John carried a few of the boxes into the bedroom, unpacked both computers, made tea, and was generally restless around the flat. The “before” and “after” images defied combining in his head, the pre-fall days, and pain of Sherlock’s absence, and whatever they had now. Sherlock noticed, and finally had enough of it and stood in a huff, coming over to where John was trying to read, shifting restlessly in the chair and folding and refolding the newspaper.

“John.”

He looked up, completely aware that Sherlock had moved across the room to stand in front of him.

“Do you have something you need to say?”

John opened his mouth as if he did, Sherlock noticed, and then watched as he clearly changed his mind. There was a noise in the building below them as Mrs. Hudson returned.

“You should probably go talk to her,” was all John volunteered.

“Come with me.”

“Not this time.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is not about me, and not about us. This is yours to explain.”

“You could ask her to come up?”

“I think she’s entitled to her reaction without me as an audience.” John turned his attention back to the paper, staring at random letters and not making any connection of words, phrases, or anything else as he sat.

“All right. But, John,” Sherlock waited until John looked directly at him, then took a knee beside his chair. He put a hand on John’s shoulder, the other carefully pushing the news journal aside. “Much of this, to me anyway, is definitely about us. It determines everything afterward. And I don't do relationships.”

“Actually I think you do.”

He leaned in, John meeting him part way, lips connecting initially with a hint of contact, and then suddenly stronger, more heat, intensely seeking more. John’s hands of their own came toward Sherlock, then, grasping each side of his waist, warm hands staking out their territory. _Even if it was thin territory_ , he thought, feeling too many prominent ribs. _Have to work on that._

Sherlock leaned back, then, a self-deprecating laugh dying in the room. “I’ve been without for a lot of years, now I can’t imagine going more than a day?”

“How many years?” His curiosity got the better of him.

Whatever witty thing Sherlock was about to say died in his throat. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, then, he pulled back, stood. John rose as well, moved to answer the imminent knock at the door as Mrs. Hudson’s steady footfalls grew closer.

The landlady’s smiling face appeared then, holding a pot of tea. John took the teapot from her, not wishing harm to either vessel or body if something were to, oh, perhaps, startle the dear woman. He set it down on the end table before even letting her see fully into the room. He grabbed his coat then, took her arm gently, slid a kiss to her cheek as he continued to block her view. He heard Sherlock behind him. “I was just heading out, Mrs. Hudson,” and before she could protest, he stepped aside to let her catch a glimpse of the other occupant of the room.

Her squeal of surprised shock along with a sudden raising of the arms in excitement brought Sherlock quickly up behind John, who hustled out of the room, down the steps, and out the door.

++

He returned some time later, having simply walked to Tesco’s for a few things to pass the time, to find Mrs. Hudson’s TV on as he passed her closed door, headed up the stairs. The sitting room was eerily quiet, the kitchen dark, tea kettle cold. Setting the bag down, he felt a prickling of fear and his heart kick into overdrive, the pounding audible in his ears at an accelerated rate. He felt that annoying flush of his skin as his whole being tensed. There was an immediate sinking feeling deep in the pit of his gut. Oh, God, he’s gone. John knew his focus was crazy, and he fought down rising panic, trying to assure himself that everything was all right. He didn’t trust his voice completely as he uttered a simple, tentative “hello?” in the flat. It was unanswered in the stillness.

Pushing open the bedroom door that was slightly ajar, he felt a sheen of sweat, and then spiraling relief pummel through his body as he glimpsed the sleeping form of a tall, curly headed detective on the bed. His shoes were off, a blanket pulled over him, mouth relaxed. John backed away from the door, letting out a silent tense breath as he returned to the sitting room. Sinking onto the sofa, he willed his body to stop this ridiculous reaction to a non-event. Good grief, he thought, shaking his head slowly at his over-stimulated autonomic nervous system, this is going to be a long process. Baker Street, for all its history, was not especially comforting to him. Willing his breathing to slow down, he picked up the same journal he had been not-reading earlier, waited for Greg to show up.

Greg was late, having texted John when he was on his way over. John slipped into the bedroom to wake Sherlock, reluctantly, knowing he needed the healing respite of sleep, too. A few different scenarios played out in his mind of previously taboo yet possibly fun ways to wake his flatmate; some included lips, hands, mouth, or a full-body snuggle. He settled for a verbal greeting and a touch on the leg.

“Greg’s about ten minutes out. Thought you’d need a few minutes?”

He brushed a tired hand over his face, extended long legs and stretched as he got up. His arm must have been rather tender, and he moved it little and rubbed his other hand over his bicep. Nodding, he replied, “You been home long? Thought maybe you would join me.” There was an impish grin which made John’s honest reply admitting to a full-on panic attack, _not happening_.

“Down, boy.” John stood his ground while Sherlock stepped up against him, arms encircling and firmly muscled thighs pressing up against each other. “There’s no time now.”

“There’s plenty of time.” Sherlock sighed impatiently. “Seriously, what’s the point of prolonging it.” His hands slipped over John’s flies, pressing, urgent.

John stepped away. “We need to talk about your impatience. What’s the rush?” Sherlock looked shocked and confused. “There’s pleasure to be had in drawing it out, waiting, _teasing?_ ” He too slid a hand down over Sherlock’s zipper, his touch light and then gone. “There'll be plenty of time later.”

“Wait, are you leaving again?”

“Oh, absolutely. Same reason. I’ll get the door, and then I’m headed out.”

Sherlock’s exasperated expression left no doubt as to what he thought of the plan - stupid, boring, idiotic - but he sighed and a few minutes later joined John in the sitting room.

Greg knocked moments later, breathlessly apologizing as John opened the door, his jacket already on. This time he blocked no view of the room, and Greg was silent, shocked, speechless, and frozen as John ducked under his arm, headed down the steps. He grabbed coffee at the cafe just down the street, and waited until he saw Greg leaving before going home.

++

Sherlock was in the kitchen when John returned, and John rounded the corner as Sherlock was coming back out to the sitting room. There was an ice-filled towel pressed on the left side of his face. John simply stared. And then got glared at when he burst into laughter.

“Greg took this well, then, I see?” John finally stammered, more casual than he felt. “I take it you’re probably out of a job, then?” Trying to hide the smile, John realized he was probably a bit too entertained by the thought of Lestrade hauling off and pounding Sherlock in the face.

“Not funny.”

“Actually, it kind of is, you know.” The doctor in John hung out his shingle long enough to pull the ice away from the maddeningly reddened large mark on Sherlock’s left cheek, determining there was no repair work that was required. “So did you provoke this, or was it just spontaneously delivered?”

“Truth?” he queried. When John nodded, he continued, “It was rather hastily following the statement, ‘how dare you have done this to John?’”

John’s brow furrowed a bit, confused. “He did this to you, avenging my honor, then?”

“Apparently.”

“I’m sorry I missed it, then.”

He cleared his throat, and John waited for him to continue. “Mrs. Hudson was pretty ticked, as well. Same reason.” He sat back on the sofa, closed his eyes, holding the ice on with his right hand. “I suppose at some point, I need to hear how bad it was, what I did to you, John, seeing as how Mycroft never let on. I mean, I know I read some of your private computer journal, but... Well, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are still very upset with me for treating you so abominably.”

“I’ll talk to both of them. Before Greg hits you again or Mrs. Hudson evicts us.” John reached a foot out then, nudged Sherlock’s leg. “Or Mycroft, rather. Thank you for that, by the way. That was fun to find out.”

“It’s irrelevant.”

John was reminded how, for such a brilliant genius, Sherlock Holmes was ridiculously naive when it came to emotion. “Tell me, Sherlock, exactly what did you expect I was going to do after... What did you imagine happening?”

“I figured you’d get over it, move on, meet someone, get married, have a happy little doctor’s family and a picket fence.” He shrugged.

“And when you came back?”

“Well, it took longer than I thought. I guess I thought we’d meet for pints someday, laugh over it.”

“You know, it’s hard being here. I should be ecstatic, this was the miracle I wanted. But I expect it will all blow up all over again. You did it to me once, not just leaving, but that damned phone call.” Sherlock’s eyes were open, now, fixed on John’s face. “You completely justified yourself for treating me the way you did, I’m not sure you have any remorse over it. Not enough to stop you again if you felt the need. I know there are no guarantees. But this is bloody hard, being here. I see the window and remember you standing there watching and deducing. And it’s the same window I stood at after you jumped and I just... missed you. And it’s the same wallpaper that you shot, and that framed your hanging mystery collages while you figured out crimes, realized things that no one else could see. The same bloody wallpaper I stared at and thought I missed something and could have prevented this, and didn’t. Thinking I failed you. And it’s the same kitchen, with the eyeballs and fingers and the dude hanging from the hook... It’s the same kitchen, after, that I used to look at knives a bit cautiously. And the desk drawer where the Browning stayed fully loaded until I moved out.”

He was on a roll. There was moistness at his eyes, he was hoping wouldn’t be noticed even as Sherlock _saw_. He cleared his throat, willing the emotion down, soldiering on, recalling the times he thought about the gun, and how things had improved after moving out, after the passage of time. Sort of. “And then, things were getting better, seriously, had a plan, working more, fulfilled there. Thought maybe I'd survived the worst of it. Had a couple of dates, even.” Sherlock's eyebrows raised at that. “Then Greg and bloody Mycroft stop by, oh, guess what John, we need you back at Baker Street because, guess what, he was innocent. And not a fraud.”

“And that was ultimately bad?”

“You seriously don’t get it, do you?” John’s skill set had always included not letting emotion rule his tone of voice, and this was no exception. But Sherlock recognized the deadly calm, the veiled anger, the self-control, and wisely grew silent again. “You were innocent, and jumped anyway? What kind of a selfish, heartless bastard does that to his best mate while he’s on the fucking phone lying to him, making him watch?”

“I acted for your safety, John, you and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I don’t know that doing something different would have endangered your very lives.” Sherlock leaned forward then, removed the ice from his face, and John’s gaze went there again, allowed himself a slight smirk at it. “And I can’t do it over any other way. But, perhaps,” he said, conceding and looking somewhat penitent, “I should have made contact much earlier. With all of you.”

Conversation continued a few more minutes, with John and Sherlock both finally clearing the air. Sherlock did grasp one of John’s hands, turn to him, and say with all sincerity that he was sorry for hurting him, asked for his forgiveness. John knew a proud Holmes had to be rather sincere to ask forgiveness from anyone. And John squeezed his hand in return, nodding, told him that of course he was forgiven. He made up his mind to mean it, as well.

“So,” Sherlock said, finally, “tell me about these dates.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Whatever you want to tell me.”

“First off, how about you? Any dates you’re confessing to?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“So that means no dates? Since when, your last date, then.”

“University. Technically. Unless we were dating, John.”

“I think both parties have to know it, first.”

“University then. Last sexual encounter, too. Save you the trouble of asking.”

“Hmm.” John watched him slide the ice back on his face. “Lynda, sales rep, from the office. Disastrous. And then there was Melissa, very sweet, pretty. Asked about you. And then told me I needed a bereaved spouse support group. Ended loudly in a restaurant. Nice scene. You would probably have enjoyed it.” John wondered if he could guess about Philip. “And then there was the guy from the bar.”

“How’s that again?” His voice dropped about an octave, a tell he had for being genuinely surprised.

“Philip. Very understanding.” John sensed Sherlock studying his face, allowed a gentle smile on his face, heard more than saw Sherlock's reaction.

“John.”

“Relax. Couple meetings. Kissed a few times. He was tall. And dark.”

“Curls?”

“Of course.” A chuckle turned into more. Laughing inappropriately - or at inopportune times - had always been easy with Sherlock. A few moments later, John nearly had to wipe his eyes. “God, that feels good. Can count that on one hand, since...”

“I know. Me too.” He lowered the ice, showed his cheek to John again. “Better?”

“For now. Is he going to hit you again tomorrow?”

“He’s used his one free shot. I’m hitting back after today.”

“I didn’t ask him to hit you, you know.”

“Obviously.”

“But I would have liked to.”

They settled in, ate dinner, discussed plans for the morning. Mycroft was coming, would accompany them to NSY but not be part of the announcements. Sherlock was planning on answering only a few questions, Greg - hopefully - would escort them to and from the conference room. They should be home by lunchtime.

John took down the dressing on Sherlock’s arm, cleaned it, admired his handiwork - particularly humbly, Sherlock observed out loud for him and received a “shut up” for his attentions. After redressing it, he had Sherlock test his range of motion, easing abduction, adduction, gently stretching until pain stopped him. He was, John cautioned, going to need to work at it to regain mobility.

“It will get there, I’m not worried.” When John was silent, he wondered what he was missing. “Are you?”

John waited until he was sure he wanted to utter it, decided to try. “It’s been a long time since I heard you play.” Sherlock could only nod. It was starting to make sense now.

++

The very long day turned into a rather early evening. Both men were rather awkward, their first day back at Baker Street, so much having happened on every level of their relationship. It was John who took charge, rising, finally, standing in front of Sherlock, holding out a hand to help him up from the couch. Wordless, he led the way to the bedroom, shedding his own shirt on the way. Running, even though it had been a while, had been kind to his body habitus. Muscles that had been very fit in Afghanistan were now toned again, a leanness to his back, stomach. As the cool air hit his skin, Sherlock behind him, he recalled the scars on Sherlock’s shoulders, thorax. Shuddered.

Sherlock in actuality needed no help undressing, but John reached out, and Sherlock complied, lifting arms when directed, sucking in his already too flat stomach to allow for zipper and buttons to be opened. His shaft sprang free, mostly at attention already, and with a touch from John’s worshipful hand, completely erect. He stepped out of trouser legs, inclined his body to the bed until John reached out, halted him.

“Why are you in such a bloody rush?” John’s hands slid up trim muscles of Sherlock’s side, categorizing ridges of latissimus dorsi, lumbar concavity, external obliques. Still wearing jeans, he pulled Sherlock against him, feeling the slightest tremor. “I’m not going to make you wait, too long, just... let me, please?” John waited for a nod of agreement. Gentle medically trained hands eased him onto the bed, pushing very slightly until he was supine. John planted an explorative kiss on Sherlock’s parted lips, tasting with tongue, teeth, and a deeper angle of the head. He paid careful attention to the slant of Sherlock’s jaw, collarbone, felt the change in rate and depth of breathing as John’s hand spanned beneath rib cage. Hoping it wouldn’t be too startling, he kissed, open mouthed, a rosy crested nipple, heard his name gasped in response, smiled to himself. Sherlock was going to be delightfully fun and responsive, if this was any indication. He checked his own mind, body, fully in control, anxiously deciding what to try next. He eased his mouth off, exhaled slightly on the wet skin, was rewarded with a pucker and another intake of breath. On his hands and knees, then, on the bed, he felt Sherlock’s hands come across his back, demanding, insistently pulling, wanting more contact, wanting to ease his obvious rampant physical needs. John resisted as the touch grew stronger, and of course his back muscles were greater than the force exerted against him. He returned to Sherlock’s mouth, gentle kiss, all the tenderness he felt inside easing against him, calming, assuring. He conveyed a sense of trustworthiness, and felt a slight amount of tension leave Sherlock’s body. Hiding the smile he was feeling, he returned to Sherlock’s waist. He wondered at the indentation by Sherlock’s iliac crest, the gap between hipbone and abdominal muscles, paying attention to the smooth skin. Frontal body hair was slight, minimal over pectorals, thin line at naval sliding into pubic hair, coarser, dark. Not as much response from lower belly, then, John saw, moved lower.

His destination was not where Sherlock had intended, and as John planted some suction on his upper thigh, teasing with tongue while his fingers searched behind firmly muscled knee, calf, he felt, heard, and sensed unresolved tension escalate quickly. He lifted his head again, meeting Sherlock’s eyes - and the eye contact was Sherlock’s undoing. He groaned, forced his hands toward John’s head, harshly whispering John’s name, pleading. John leveled a predatory gaze at him, raised up enough to open his mouth, lick his lips. “John!!” Sherlock wheezed, flailing his head back and closing his eyes. John could not stop the laugh that emitted, sat back on his heels. His hand, from this position, slid down Sherlock’s softly furred calf to grip his ankle. His cock was practically begging as well, too heavy and thick to stand straight up, leaking. John wasn’t sure his partner could take much more, and he adjusted his own uncomfortable position inside his jeans.

The few moments gave them both a chance to regroup. Sherlock, eyes still closed, tested his injured arm, John noticed. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t stress your arm.” He attempted distraction, then, sliding his hand cautiously up his inner calf, to knee, spreading his fingers out over his inner thigh, then hesitating as Sherlock moaned again. His right arm came over, then, John saw, and watched his fingers head toward his cock. He caught the hand, holding it firm, and Sherlock growled deep, sitting up, way past the point of caring one bloody iota what John said. Until John uttered, “Stop it.” There was a menacing tone that at least made Sherlock look up at John. A battle of wills, then, ensued, and John slid his body back up, his chest effectively holding Sherlock back onto the bed.

When John brought his mouth back to Sherlock’s, he was met with a desperate meeting of tongue, and his free hand reached lower. He was rewarded with what could only come across as a purring sound, appropriate, he thought, as Sherlock’s movements could be, indeed, subtly feline in nature. A few thrusts of Sherlock’s pelvis into a few strokes from John’s hand and there was a shout as Sherlock quickly achieved a violent and potent orgasm, John’s name wringing hoarsely from his throat. John’s gaze took in the sprawling satiated form of the detective, looking thoroughly debauched, wanton, undone, John saw, under the power of the touch of John’s hands. His breaths still quivered as John watched, spurts of hot wetness still pulsating over John’s hand. The quivering, John noted, was across his belly, legs, too, and John found that pressing his form up against Sherlock, stilling and quieting him with a gentle caress and whispering seemed to calm him. “Shh, it’s ok. I’ve got you. Shhh.” After what seemed like long minutes, Sherlock’s eyes drifted back open and his breathing finally eased. The pulse rate at the base of his throat, John saw, however, was still markedly elevated. Holding him closely, a hand idly touching hair, face, though, helped the most, and Sherlock’s arm tightened around John as his cognition returned.

“You are beneath contempt.” And, John mused, _there is the Sherlock that I know_.

“Why, because I took you bloody apart?”

“You’re still dressed. I thought sex was best with two participants.”

“Oh, I participated. That. Was mind-blowing.” Still holding tight, he pressed another kiss to the side of Sherlock’s face, eased onto his side, his other hand tightening around Sherlock’s shoulder. At some point, John realized, they would get cold. And he was in need of a flannel. But until then, this was particularly nice. A side of Sherlock, this trembling hulk of quivering need, post-orgasmic, that as far as John knew, no one else had ever witnessed.

“Did you...?” he finally asked.

“No.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“We’ll get to it. This was more about you, I think. You are bloody fantastic.”

Before too long, John was actually nearly thinking about sleep when Sherlock shivered, out of cold this time. “You okay if I get up?”

“I think so.” At the seriousness of his inflection, John elbowed up, paused as they met eyes again. “It’s very scary, being slightly out of control.”

“Slightly?” John teased. “Wait until next time, it gets better.”

There was a modicum of alarm seated on Sherlock’s face as John extricated himself from the bed to bring a flannel to clean them up with. He added pyjama pants to Sherlock’s outstretched hand, switched his jeans to pyjamas, himself, doused the light, and climbed back into bed. It was a comedy of awkwardness as they battled for bedspace, pillowspace, and whose limbs got priority positioning. Finally, John rolled away weary of the battle, snickering slightly at Sherlock’s nearly postictal phase, and both fell asleep, satisfied expressions all around.

His erection had definitely eased, his personal satisfaction of a different variety, and it was enough to allow for a few hours of sleep before awakening to Sherlock’s insistent hand stroking him. Under cover of darkness, he felt the covers pulled down, his waistband moved, and the addition of warm wet mouth, lips and tongue. Quickly, the erection became poundingly hard, throbbing, finding the friction of the mouth closed around him immensely pleasurable. A few moments, a hand joined the party, holding and stroking scrotum, tightened, and John gave a warning statement, “So close, oh god, I can’t... I’m going to...”. In answer, Sherlock went deeper, suction applied, hand tightening, and John tried to pull away as Sherlock swallowed, only hesitating enough to pull back enough to not choke. He moved back to the pillow, wiping his mouth, and John’s skin tingled as Sherlock’s lips nuzzled his neck. He murmured sounds of appreciation and awe, and this time, they found market space for intertwining bodies, drifted back to sleep.

++

When John awoke the next morning, the bed was empty. And he heard voices. _Oh bloody hell_ , he thought. Mycroft was already here.

He used the loo, noted that the time was still early enough for pyjamas, and for pity’s sake, he wanted tea. He rounded the corner into the sitting room, and Sherlock met him, there, a hot cup of tea extended. Eyes met, smiled, and Mycroft cleared his throat.

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered. John eyed the brothers carefully. Mycroft looked like he always did plus the slightly amused smirk that he was wearing. He had his umbrella, of course, and on the floor was a box of what John assumed were Sherlock’s belongings, along with a file folder of presumed legal statements and press-release materials.

Before long, after a very casual conversation that John merely observed detailing specific statements they would either read or issue or discuss, Mycroft left the flat, and John finished his tea while Sherlock showered. He returned after a few minutes to the sitting room, a towel wrapped around his waist so John could inspect the now open to air, sutured wound. Making another, by now routine trip to his stash of medical supplies, he obtained what he needed, redressed the arm. Once it was secured with tape, he raised the arm slightly, nuzzling his lips to it.

“Not my routine medical care, by the way. And I would rather kiss you without the injury, next time.” He pulled clothing over it, carefully, while John showered. Before long, the driver was out front, and they were ushered into the back of one of Mycroft’s fleet.

“Greg’s going to love seeing his handiwork there, you know.” John said, gesturing at his face.

“So do we tell him about us, or do we wait to see if he figures it out?” Sherlock asked. “You have to choose, you know. Mr. he’s-not-my-date.”

“I think I’d like to enjoy it, just us, before... I suspect things are going to get rather public for a while.” They had been briefed by Mycroft about the legality of the issues of faking one’s death. No laws had been broken, as there were no life insurance claims. Public trust, as well as employment issues, were something else yet to be determined.

++

Mycroft’s car brought them back to Baker Street, and the escort into the building was apparently unnecessary. Word had not yet gotten out, then, and within it seemed like a few minutes, they were back in the sitting room, Sherlock flat on his back on the couch, fingers steepled under his nose, John at the window, luxuriating in the steam from a cuppa he held reverently in his hands.

The press conference had almost been anticlimactic. Statement read, only a few questions, some of them expressing outrage at the deception. Greg had fielded them, deferring one of the questions about future plans to Sherlock, who answered evasively. Only one question had come to John, which was when exactly did he find out about Sherlock being alive, and how did that make him feel? He chose not to answer, claiming something about an on-going investigation, and the reporter had made a face, then, clearly disbelieving.

After, when Greg had ushered them back down the hall out of the conference room, he had pulled John aside, into his office, and closed the door. “Are you bloody all right?” he asked, seeing John’s nod, and he continued, “How long have you known, John?”

“A month or so. Maybe a bit longer.” John was feeling wary, protective. “I'm okay, really. Shocked at first, of course." He felt a bit of anxiety about the closed door and proximity to Sherlock. He wouldn't leave without him, would he? "Pints this week?” he asked carefully, steering the conversation deliberately to more questions.

Greg nodded, smiling then, “I’m sorry I hit him, but, God, how dare he. Felt pretty fucking good. Might want to do it again. Just say the word, ok?” His grin belied the strength of his words, still, John wondered about putting them both in the same room for a bit yet.

When leaving Greg’s office, his gaze drew immediately to Sherlock, and he was not surprised to find him and Sally Donovan going at it. Both of them clammed up when they saw John. “Oh, don’t let me stop you,” he said, gesturing to them both. Sherlock’s face was slightly more pink than from Greg’s strike from yesterday. Donovan was also rather upset. “I was just telling the freak here that it’s been a great vacation not having him mucking around sticking his arrogant nose into ev--”

“That’s enough.” John’s tone was icy and clipped.

She turned on him, then. “You’re one to talk. What the hell, John? What he’s done to you over the years?” She was more manic than usual, started talking rapidly about Sherlock deserting him at crime scenes, at the deception, at the way he hurt people. She told John that she had tried to warn him, and she was clearly enjoying the drama and the audience and the nerve she was getting on, and as she tried to continue, John held up a hand. Surprisingly, she halted.

“Enough.” There was something to be said for being an officer, military ranking, and John carefully weighed his words. Greg, Sherlock, and a few others waited. “Today, let’s just be grateful, ok?” Oh, there was so much more he wanted to say, he thought, looking at Sherlock first, then Greg. He hoped his wounds weren’t showing.

So now, back at Baker Street, it was awkward again. There was such tension, such awareness of the other person in the room, as well as the elephant they weren’t discussing. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, and John crossed the room, turned on the telly. The box Mycroft had brought was next to the couch, and John flipped open the loose lid. Then wished immediately he hadn’t.

The violin. And the Belstaff.

++

Before an hour had passed, the mobiles were nonstop with incoming texts and messages. A few voicemails. Neither of them answered any of it, although occasionally they read texts out loud if they were amusing enough. And there were some of those. One from Harry was entertaining, stating that perhaps now John could settle down and do something with his life. He deleted that. There was one from Molly, to both of them, simply noting that she was glad it was over. Sarah left a voicemail, telling John that they needed to discuss scheduling. And when the text from Philip came in, Sherlock must have been on high alert, reading John's face, as he immediately wanted to know who had sent it and what it said. John considered evasiveness, opted to play along.

“Figure it out. Genius.”

“Philip. Obviously.” He watched John, saw how hard John worked to maintain control, dignity, and poise. “Congratulations.” He paused. “Or something along those lines.”

“Glad to see it, wishing you guys many more happy years.” John read out loud. He powered his phone off, having had enough. “You saw what Mycroft brought?”

“I did.” He crossed to where John was seated. “Been missing those things.”

He took his time, knowing that the power of words, especially to a verbally driven man like John could make or break a person. Must choose with utmost care, he knew.

“John.”

John’s gaze was resting on the floor, stayed there for a bit, wondering about where they were heading, when the aching would go away. He’d escaped from the harsh reality while they were in bed and he was in control, he knew that about himself, but out of bed, it was just so bloody hard. Resignedly, he looked up.

“I have an idea. Probably the best idea that I have ever had.” He took John’s upper arm, tugging until he was standing. Lowering his head, he slid one hand in along John’s face, feeling strong jaw, silky light hair, felt John’s stance as it reveled in and leaned toward his touch. “And you and I are both going to love it.”

++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, just wait until you hear Sherlock's idea. I cannot wait to share it with you all. Up soon, chapter 5 is more complicated than I was expecting. And then it will be thoroughly complete.


	5. Sherlock takes care of John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good feels from start to finish with a bit of plot to make it interesting. The final chapter in which John and Sherlock have figured out to move on. New life for old. Memories together override the old hurtful ones, for both of them. Some of their foraging might be just a bit uncomfortable for one or the other of them. Definite fix-it for Post Reichenbach, though.
> 
> Might _barely_ cross out of "mature" into NC-17. Of course, pun intended.

Footsteps on the stairs, then, interrupted both the verbal as well as the physical conversation. Sherlock breathed a frustrated expletive as John answered the eventual knock.

“Get used to this for a while, yes?”

Daniel, Mycroft’s driver, and another person had large boxes in their arms, a bag slung over a shoulder. John stood back, holding the door open. Few words were exchanged, other than the fact that Mycroft had arranged for this delivery. As they headed out, there was a female voice added to the mix as Molly appeared in the stairway. She was carrying a cooler, smiled at John. Sherlock didn’t miss the wink that passed between the two.

She didn’t stay long, just enough to hand Sherlock the cooler, wait for him to acknowledge the contents. John realized, noting her discomfort. He wondered how she would react to the eventual discovery of the changed relationship there at Baker Street.

“John.”

He glanced up.

“Was this your doing?” Nod. “When was I not paying attention this morning?”

“I texted her while you were in the shower. Better put those... parts ... in the refrigerator before they thaw. _Not_ on the shelf with the food.” He smiled to himself as he heard Sherlock identify items as he unpacked and put them away, then caught the smile. _What on earth had he been thinking, and what was the obsession with dead body parts anyway_? Well, on second thought, an obsession with living body parts might end up to his advantage. Sherlock returned from the kitchen to find John reading through the folder Mycroft had brought earlier.

The other box, John knew, from his brother, would likely be well received too, and he was not disappointed when Sherlock opened it to find a few other things that had been not only _missing but missed_ , there at the flat. The microscope came out first, carried reverently to the table. It was nostalgic for John as well. The skull came next, unwrapped from a cloth - was that Mycroft who had packed it that way? John couldn’t remember when those items disappeared from the flat nearly two years ago.

“Thank you for that, John.” He set the item on the mantle, angled it just so, the way it had always faced. “Feels a bit more like home now.” Their eyes connected again, feeling slightly less awkward. Donovan’s words still stung, though, for them both, cruel, biting, hurtfully blunt.

“Mycroft was rather amenable to the request. I think he might just be glad you’re back.”

“Probably not. Glad to get rid of excess storage, more likely.”

“He was worried when he lost contact.”

Sherlock made a face of disapproval, brightened suddenly as he remembered something. “You remember when he and Lestrade came to fetch you back to Baker Street, do you remember what you did to him?” When John was silent, he continued. “You hugged him, felt badly for him. God, that was so brilliant, he was so upset. He said he pushed you away --”

“He did, rude bastard.”

“-- because if he didn’t, he was going to break down and tell you the truth.” John turned that fact over in his mind, considering for the first time that Mycroft might actually be human? And then deleted it.

++

John made a sandwich, while Sherlock fiddled with old slides that were bundled in the box delivered earlier. The remainder of the boxes, John sorted through, hanging up the coat with a knot in his stomach, blamed the sandwich. The dry cleaning tags were still pinned to collar and sleeve. He wondered how bad the blood stains had been. The violin, in the case, he set carefully on the desk by the window, swallowing around the lump in his throat. The empty boxes went into the hallway. His laptop beckoned, and he finally, begrudgingly logged on. The blog, of course, was blowing up. He refused to read any comments, picked through, painstakingly, an announcement and a tactful explanation without revealing too much. He wanted to avoid overtly apologizing, but worked in a phrase about doing hard things for the greater good. He emphasized the necessity of the ruse and the safe outcome that had ultimately resulted. _Post._

It was mid afternoon before either of them particularly came up for air, and it was at John’s doing, when he looked up and saw a puzzled grimace on Sherlock’s face as he completely absently, obliviously was testing the limits of both pain and range of motion of his injured left arm. Sherlock caught him watching, then, lowered the arm, schooled his expression.

“Oh, so my idea.” He had John’s full attention, leaned back in the chair, stretched out long, lean legs, crossed at the ankles, and began. “So, surprisingly enough, Donovan herself, bitch that she is, got me to thinking.” Pause. “While I was away, I actually thought of crime scenes, the work I was missing out on, the excitement and the simple mindedness of the yard-ers, and I actually missed it.

“Until today, of course.

“So I got to thinking about what you said, about the flat, about the memories being hard, painful. From before, and while I was gone, and when you moved back. I agree. Seeing the mantle without the skull, just... wrong. The table looked... barren until the microscope was back. I think I get it, John. And the fact that I caused this for you, hurt you... I just want to un-do it.” There was a gleam in his eye. “So just like Donovan quashed any previous pleasant memory, and just like restoring items here have made a difference, I think we can fix this. We must create new memories to overshadow the old ones that hurt.

“I’m going to make sure,” he said, getting up to then kneel next to John, “that every place here has more pleasurable memories,” he slid a warm hand onto John’s nipple and then immediately to his zipper, pressed firmly with immediate response of erectile tissue and a gasp from John, “starting with these bloody kitchen chairs,” he leaned in for a passionate, non-gentle kiss while his hands deftly unfastened buckle, zipper, buttons, “and working our way around the flat.”

When John moved, Sherlock stilled him, taking one hand at a time, placing it straight down, curling each hand around a chair leg, holding it there until John grabbed on himself. Before long, with Sherlock’s focus on quickly reaching fulfillment, he applied himself to the task, turned John into a quivering mass of protoplasm. Sherlock wiped his chin, leaning back looking extremely smug, and grinned. “You come undone, too, apparently.”

It took a few minutes for the seated individual to catch his breath, regroup, calm his shaking thighs. _Holy god almighty_ , he breathed. “Sherlock,” he said quietly, waited until he had his full attention. “I never had any issues with these bloody kitchen chairs.”

In response, Sherlock stepped to him, quickly, smirking as he unpeeled John’s hands that were still on the chair legs. He kissed him, with a bit of force, his tongue probing inside, and John could taste himself. “Good. Little prevention never hurt anyone.”

++

“Will you be okay if I call Sarah and get back on the schedule tomorrow or the day next?”

“I think the question is better, are _you_ going to be okay with that?”

“One of us probably ought to be working.”

“You worry too much.”

“I’m more driven to eat more than you are.”

In the end, Sarah was grateful that John was able to get back to a regular schedule of sorts. He both looked forward to and dreaded returning to work. Before they ended the call, she asked how things were going, how Sherlock was doing.

“He’s ...” John cleared his throat, and Sherlock glanced over with amusement. “He’s good.” He tried to keep his tone neutral, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. John had to turn his back lest he laugh or mutter something inappropriate.

++

John returned from a rather decent shift, all things considered, his step light as he climbed the steps. He considered the irony that he was feeling accomplished for completing a 9 hour workday without a meltdown. How far he had lowered the bar to accommodate his mind. Fragility was weakness, and he hated it. Sighing, he reached the door, realizing this journey - like every other - was one step at a time.

They’d discussed how best to ease John’s transition, coping with his already confessed fear. It had ended up being an emotionally exhausting conversation, for John of course, particularly. Delving into deep scars and anxiety with the keen observations of the man who knew him best was humiliating and he felt flayed open by the end. A few texts from time to time, they both finally agreed, would be a good place to start, and John would let him know if he was getting particularly edgy. The day had been steadily busy, nothing chaotic, and a great mental distraction. Sherlock had done as promised, a very routine few texts, casual, all without being condescending. There had been a few rough moments, John would agree, during times he had a moment to himself, when his mind got entirely too far ahead of himself, worrying.

The staff at the office, Sarah included, had been tentative, trying to best gauge John’s reactions. He assured them things were “fine, just fine”, and, in typical almost stoic fashion, John got to work. Soldiering on, yeah? Sarah carefully avoided the topic, which suited John. There would be plenty of time - and there was an abundance of open shifts they wanted John back on the schedule. Even in the week or so that John had been out, there was a backlog and longer than customary wait times.

He paused as he reached the door to the flat. There was violin music, blessed, sweet violin music, once again emanating from 221B. It stirred the center of John’s chest, filling him, and he recognized the smooth melodic notes of the piece Sherlock had written. He pictured Sherlock standing at the window, light playing on his face and catching the chestnut highlights of his hair, the violin an extension of the depth and beauty of the man. It was a comforting image.

And so he had a hard time keeping the disappointment off his features when he opened the door to find Sherlock brooding on the couch and the mp3 file playing from the laptop. The violin was still tucked away, the case closed, over at the edge of the desk.

There was a chill in the air, figuratively, and he hung up his coat and case. “I’m ready for tea, do you want some?”

No answer. Then, “How long will it take for all the swelling to go down?” He was holding up his left arm, flexing fingers minimally.

“I’m sure a few weeks,” he answered slowly. Understanding dawned. “How bad is the numbness, then?”

“Complete on the last two fingers, partial on the middle.”

John flipped on the kettle, his mind engaged. He grabbed a few alcohol pads from his bag, returned to Sherlock’s side. “Close your eyes then.”

“Why?” John’s jaw clenched, and he waited until Sherlock huffed out a breath and complied.

Touching both upper arms with an alcohol pad, just under the edge of the tee shirt, he explained nerve sensation related to dermatomal levels a bit as Sherlock listened quietly. “Each side should feel equally cold here?” When Sherlock nodded, he continued, touching elbow, forearm, top of the wrist. “Equally cold, both sides?” Another nod. “I would expect, then, that these” he said, touching pinky fingers, right, then left, “are not equally temperature sensitive?” Sherlock’s lips pursed, a very slight shake of the head.

They worked through the remaining fingers, then, noting the slight differences and where the dermatomes seemed to delineate. John set the alcohol pad aside, commented, “At least we have a baseline. It’ll be helpful when it starts to improve.” Sherlock’s eyes remained closed, and John couldn’t help but feel badly. Disappointment was never Sherlock’s friend. “Oh, one last thing, _this_ shouldn’t feel cold at all.” And when John’s lips touched the sensitive place under his ear, tongue tickling slightly, tasting slight salt, Sherlock’s arms came around John, pulled him close.

From his kneeling vantage point, John had freedom of access to the supine form of the man laying in front of him, trusting and vulnerable. One hand slid very slowly along the side of Sherlock's face, thumb brushing the tension away from temple, hair, looking forward to when the curls were a bit longer. When pale eyes opened to reveal dilated pupils, John's gaze locked in, then, smiling, his chest in tune with the ... tender expression smiling back at him. His other hand slid lower, seeking zipper and male hardness underneath. Lowering the zipper, reaching inside, John was pleased to hear the sharp intake of breath. Sherlock was hard, throbbing, his cock pulsating under John's touch. He lifted hips to help John ease trousers, pants down, then Sherlock gestured at John's clothing. John was quick to comply, and the coolness of air on skin was rapidly replaced with hot skin as Sherlock pulled at John's firm back, thighs until they were completely pressed together. A few mutual thrusts heated things up more, until John pulled back slightly, angling his pelvis away. Sherlock growled impatiently.

"We should move..." he suggested, a bit breathlessly, "Mrs. Hudson...?" There were sounds from the flat below, nothing on the steps, but John had no inclination that getting caught would be in any way a good idea. Particularly as, on top in this position, it was going to be his arse hanging out.

In answer, Sherlock pulled John's mouth to his, uttered, "Stop. Talking." A heated, passionate snog followed, not letting up, tongue searching, lips and teeth engaged. His hand reached down, long fingers maneuvering and then, somehow, blissfully encircling both of their cocks. John was lost. It ended up, John realized later, that Sherlock had occupied his mouth very deliberately and intentionally, as the moans that he was able to absorb would have left no doubt in Mrs. Hudson's mind as to what the men of 221B were up to.

In the aftermath, as various body fluids cooled and dried between them, John caught his breath, finally, moved to get up. Sherlock's arm tightened, holding him fast. John pushed harder, until Sherlock mumbled, "Stay."

John was just about to reply that he was cold when the downstairs flat door opened, and footsteps sounded in the hallway. John stood quickly, ready to make a valiant attempt at restoring some semblance of being clothed. Sherlock, however, didn't move. An amused expression on his face, he watched John a moment longer, said, "It's Thursday." The door to the street opened, closed.

"So?" John asked, and then remembered, "Ah, book club."

He smirked. John stood, watched him briefly, seeing the mess on his stomach, waist, up toward his ribs. He took a deep breath, blew hard on the cooling fluids, then abruptly jumped backward as Sherlock, shivering, reached out to grab him. And John almost evaded him, drat those long arms. Laughing, he pulled John close again, making a terrible spread of the mess as he rubbed their bodies together. John was not to be outdone. He coiled a hand behind Sherlock's head, holding hair firmly enough to get his body to still, reached his other hand to Sherlock's nipple, squeezed firm enough to render him speechless, and said, "Shower. Now."

It was a toss up who led whom down the hall to the shower.

The couch, pillows askew, was looking debauched in its own right. The couch as well as the shower, after the shenanigans of that particular afternoon into the evening, would never look the same to either one of them again.

++

Late office hours and an unfortunate needy patient at clinic had him running later than he liked. _Great_ , he thought. _Second day back and already running behind_. He texted as he was on his way home. “ **On my way. JW"**

“ **No rush here. Been thinking about tonight. SH** ”

“ **Oh? JW”**

“ **Save your energy. You're going to need it. -SH”**

He arrived eager to discover what his experimental flatmate had in mind. Nothing seemed different or out of place so far. They shared a late dinner, nothing further mentioned, until Sherlock cleared John’s plate, said, “Go upstairs. Undress if you want. I’ll be along momentarily.”

It was surprising to discover that climbing the stairs with a rampant erection was not all that comfortable. His old bedroom, he rarely went in unless it was to add a box for storage that they no longer wanted in the main living area. But clearly, Sherlock had been in there today. The bed was freshly linened, he had actually even dusted and hoovered. Boxes were not gone but certainly out of the way.

Heart pounding, he had pulled off his shirt, shoes and socks by the time he heard footsteps on the stairs. When the door opened, he was already watching. Sherlock, of course, wearing a scarf, his Belstaff, a smile, and nothing else. The sight of bare feet underneath the woolen hem was oddly erotic.

“I used to imagine coming up here. Before.”

“I did a lot of _not sleeping_ up here. After.” John’s hands grasped the upturned collar, fingers sliding along neck then drawing strong jaw down for a snog. Quickly, Sherlock’s grip tightened, his breath accelerating, his coated form pressing into John. Long fingers sought John's scarred right shoulder, testing, learning, categorizing. Bowed lips tasted, laving the healed wound, drawing an intake of breath from John. His fingers reached for John’s waist, seeking to divest him of trousers, pants. John debated on trying to put the brakes on Sherlock’s libido - god, the man had one speed, to reach the destination as fast as possible, whereas John had typically preferred to enjoy the scenic route. He wondered if that was a preference related to John's previous attention attuned to the female response, completely different, and then when Sherlock had his trousers down around his knees, all thought seemed to vanish as he found himself on his back on the bed.

Sherlock removed both scarf and coat, then the rest of John’s clothing, joined him, full body against full body. Their cocks aligned, and a few strokes was all it took before spasms began, first Sherlock and followed shortly by John. In all his planning, Sherlock had placed a wet flannel folded by the bed then griped because it was cold. John snickered, then, suggesting that perhaps if he was cold, he would benefit from either scarf or coat? It had been a few days since the phrase was uttered, but when Sherlock muttered, “John, shut up,” John reached over, grabbed the scarf from the floor, and tossed it at Sherlock, who retaliated by pressing his cool skin against John's back. He flinched, just a bit, his arms tightening. He recalled nights in this very room where he longed for this very _gift_ , and he wasn't about to miss out on even the slightest moment of it, cold bed partner or not.

When John awakened the next morning, a rather relaxing night sleep despite the now-foreign bed, Sherlock was gone and the scarf was under his hip. He took in the room, same marks on the ceiling, the crack in the plaster in the corner, headboard of the same distressed wood from years of existence. The room was essentially unchanged, but John was able to smile at his new perspective. Hearing the sounds of the flat faintly as they echoed up the steps, he heard a sizzle and a loud “ouch” and he went downstairs to investigate, considering the current location of the first aid kit, but the smile never left his face.

++

About a week later, Sherlock was tentatively attempting a few notes on the violin. He’d picked it up almost every day, impatiently awaiting return of function. There was some residual numbness, but sensation, he found, was nearly equilateral. His fingers, though, he notices were a bit stiff from the musical hiatus. John had attempted to read a recent release of one of his favorite crime authors, mostly to irritate Sherlock, who wasted no time in lambasting the mundane writing, predictable plot, and utter waste of time. It only served to motivate John further to torment his partner through it’s perpetual presence. But once the music started, he was unable to concentrate and finally gave up. At times, Sherlock’s eyes would meet his as he glanced away from the music. John was always pretty sure the music to be unnecessary, with Sherlock’s eidetic memory - which John wished he would have had in med school - but he still did occasionally consult with the octavo on the stand.

“How’s your concentration, then?” John asked, trying to hide his whirling mind with a mundane question.

“Fine. Better than yours on that book certainly. Why?” There was a blasted smirk on Sherlock’s face, and he had apparently already cued in to John’s devious line of thinking.

“How do you _do_ that?” John asked.

“Why do you think I picked it up? I’ve been hard since you flaunted yourself in the kitchen earlier.”

“I bloody did the dishes.” John questioned, shaking his head. “That was flaunting?”

“It was sexy as hell.” He was mocking, John was nigh certain of it.

He moved across the short distance to stand next to Sherlock. “Keep playing.” John waited for him to resume before he reached for Sherlock’s belted robe, undoing zipper, buttons, and when Sherlock stopped playing, John stopped as well. He looked up to find startled pale eyes staring back down, then he raised an eyebrow, said “I said, _keep playing_.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Okay, then.” And John shifted as if to stand up when another note sounded.

“Could be dangerous.”

“Oh, immensely. But I'll be careful. With the _instrument_ , of course.”

"No. Just, no." The staredown ended when Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John waited. Another few measures of the piece, focused yet again on the music.

John slid trousers down, his mouth seeking and finding something of interest. Sherlock reverted to another piece, one from remote past, well known, required less thinking, the notes coming of rote without him paying much attention. John allowed that a few moments, added his hand to the pleasurable sensations he was giving, then pulled away again. “The other piece, please.”

“John.”

“Are you _whining_ at me?” His tone brooked more incredulousness than he was feeling, but, well... in for a penny, and all that. John arched an eyebrow.

Sherlock harrumphed again, with all the petulance of a spoilt child, he raised the bow again. Sensitive to his frustration, John slowed down some, allowing Sherlock to regain his concentration. A few measures in, though, his dexterity was suffering, as was his proficiency, and he paused mid-measure. And so did John. When his pelvis moved against John’s head, John released him completely. “I can’t... John, _please_.” His cock, leaking, standing at complete, swollen attention, seemed plaintively begging right along with Sherlock’s words.

“I know you can. You can stop right before. Immediately before.” John rose, then, sliding hand along ribs, planting some oral attention to xiphoid, sternum, nipple, then giving firm attention to trembling shoulders, cradled his jaw between warm fingers. He pressed his own friction-swollen lips on Sherlock’s mouth, aggressively tasting, applying gentle suction, expressing tender affection before lowering to a knee again, waiting. He realized that if he pushed much harder, there would eventually be sulking involved. “Go on, then.”

Sweet legato notes came forth, then, the violin humming with an intensity Sherlock hadn’t played with yet tonight. His eyes were straight, focused on the music as John slid him to the back of his throat. While he wanted, in part, to close his eyes, he was enraptured at the sight of Sherlock’s desire, frustration, focus, and efforts to please him. It was, he knew, a sight for his eyes only. Sherlock Holmes didn’t ever especially “obey” anyone.

His hands reached around the base of the shaft, another pressing urgently on the taut, sensitive perineum, reaching back even further. It was Sherlock’s undoing. The bow came down quickly, the hand fingering the neck of the instrument released and gripped John’s head. His head clamped down sideways on the shoulder and chin rests, safely securing the instrument as he moaned sharply, starting low as his body contracted beneath John’s fingers and propelled forward into John’s mouth. John did keep an eye on the stability of the violin as he held Sherlock close, hands, shoulder, mouth. The pulsations lasted long, long, long seconds. Finally, John swallowed a final time, slid back on his heels, and stood up. He took the instrument with both hands, placed it on the desk behind him, removed the bow from Sherlock’s hand, placed in on the stand, then wrapped both arms around Sherlock’s shaking torso. The taller man continued to stand, rooted, his legs apart, feet firmly planted, his breathing and muscle tone tight but starting to relax. He lowered his face into John’s neck, inhaling deeply of John’s wonderful scent, the faint musk of sweat and sex lingering.

“You don’t understand how frightening that is for me. Losing control.” His voice was just slightly raspy, tentative, another facet of Sherlock that no one else would ever likely see.

“We’ll just have to keep practicing, then.”

Every time Sherlock picked up the violin after that, John had only to glance over to make eye contact before they adjourned to the bedroom, first, in order to actually have Sherlock practice with any productivity. And the music had never sounded sweeter, to either one of them.

++

They were watching the news one night, half paying attention, half discussing John’s efforts on the blog. It was much different now, he realized, and he was trying to be careful that what he wrote did not reveal more than they were ready to divulge. The news story on the network was regarding a serial rapist, who seemed to be leaving unusual clues behind, such as a chalk message, a note pad from a local hotel, a flyer from a fundraiser. Sherlock watched intently, moving his body so he could be slightly closer to the telly. Finally, he grinned, turned to John, and announced, “Lestrade will be calling soon. This one is out of their league and they need assistance.” It was just over an hour before Sherlock’s mobile rang. It was Lestrade of course, requesting his services be reinstated for the NSY, on probationary measures.

Celebrating that night involved dinner at Angelo's, something else that had initially been something John had hesitated about. It ended up being, he realized, Sherlock’s stockinged foot teasing him under the tablecloth into a throbbing hardness, one of the quickest dinners that the two of them had ever eaten.

++

The first case had been something of a time slide back in years as Sherlock labored over details, not sleeping, not eating. Moody. Sulking. Complaining when John went to work, complaining when he got home, fussing about being unable to solve the mystery. The wall was rearranged regularly as his mind sorted information out, seeking relationships between variables. John was awakened one night, ridiculous hour, by shouting, and, when he stumbled out of the bedroom to investigate, he found an almost ecstatic Sherlock facing the wall, having pulled all but three pieces of evidence down.

“Solved, then?”

He frowned at John’s rather simplistic statement, left the _obviously_ unsaid, and said, “I’m calling Lestrade.”

“You do know it's 2 am.”

He seemed surprised at the time. “Is that why you’re in pyjamas?”

“I know it’s tedious, all this sleeping.” Sherlock was wide awake, charged up, and John knew it was a long shot, but offered, “You could join me?”

“Oh, John, don’t be ridiculous. I am far too...” And then he caught on, smiling excitedly. “Right. Great idea.” He stormed the hall, then, John in his wake, back into the bedroom.

Another learning point for them both, Sherlock on a post-solving case adrenaline rush was a loud and rambunctious creative force in the bed. The next morning, they were both pretty sure Mrs. Hudson had figured things out judging by her lack of eye contact and furious blush.

Their second case back began with a body crumpled on the floor, pistol nearby, recliner, lamp, dog at the scene. Sherlock noted prints dusted on weapon, fingerprints on evidence card obtained by crime scene tech, took it in, disgusted. “This is only a 3. 4 at best.” Lestrade queried, Sherlock said only, “John.”

“Oh, yeah, right, well. Definitely not a suicide then....” John pursed his lips, hedging. Looking.

“Correct, and why not?”

John squinted slightly, his synapses, rusty after time away from crime scenes, firing sluggishly at first. “Because the prints on the gun rule her out.”

“Of course, and you know this...?”

He felt like he’s sitting for medical boards again and being grilled by the final panel. “Because...” he studied her, the location of the weapon, the body, and the chair she’d been sitting in. “Because she lives alone, and because she’s left handed.” The end table was to the left of the chair. Obviously, now that he saw it. “The gun was fired by a right handed person.”

“We are done here.” Sherlock, a flair of coat and attitude, turned, left the room. John offered a polite parting to Greg, and followed.

"You had me a little worried, there, you know." The cab had just dropped them at Baker Street. "And you did not disappoint." While John was not a particularly insecure person, spoken approval from Sherlock was a thrilling sensation, indeed. The flat was unchanged, but felt charged as they unlocked the door, stepped inside. Surprise was evident on Sherlock's face as John slammed the door, pressing him up against it, making sure his erection pressed strongly against Sherlock's thighs.

"I have an hour before my shift, let's see if I can continue _Not. Disappointing. You._ "

++

John’s schedule varied from week to week, and one of his days off left him available to finally take care of something he’d been trying hard not to think about. Sherlock was working on dissolving metacarpal bones in various strengths of acids that morning, and the flat became rather an inhalation danger if they closed the windows. When John accused Sherlock of attempting to perfect the chemical lobotomy, Sherlock launched into a rampant dissertation on how and why that was a completely ridiculous question before he realized that John was not expecting an answer. His point, then, became apparent. Sherlock was surprisingly willing to accompany John on an “errand” after that comment.

They started off on foot toward the Old Church, a fine mist had been falling earlier, but gave way to merely overcast. Typical London weather, gray skies, either ready to rain or just having rained. And appropriate, John felt. He felt a fine sheen of sweat despite being cool under his jacket, gloves, scarf. Items in his pocket were either reassuring or annoying, and he was looking forward to being rid of them. When they turned down a side street, Sherlock figured out where they were heading.

“The cemetery, John?” He entered through the gate just half a step ahead.

“Yes. Okay?” He hadn’t particularly found that anything about their current situation had especially been bothersome or upsetting for his flatmate, but didn’t want to assume. When he shrugged and nodded his assent, John continued, “Good, because I hate it here.”

“John, we cannot have sex in the cemetery in the middle of the day.” John’s gaze cut to him sharply and he realized the detective was actually teasing him. Perhaps the odors in the flat had affected his thought processes, then? Unlikely .

“Or in the middle of the night either. Ewww. God, you’ve turned into an addict.” And some of the time, that was very true, Sherlock had been pleasantly surprised to discover his enjoyment of previously determined tedious, boring activities. Because he found very little tedious or boring about John.

Just a short path down from the sidewalk, the path went up the hill, winding around plots. John didn’t particularly see any other than the dark marble marker under the tree. Where he’d uttered a request for one more miracle. And two years later, the miracle was accompanying him to the very spot he’d asked for it.

“When was the last time you were here?” Sherlock asked.

“Two years ago. When I thought you were in the ground and apparently you were off in the trees listening.” The marker looked the same, and John still hated seeing it. “I haven’t been back since. And I don’t want to linger here, either.” He pulled the items out of his pocket then, the IBISH tee shirt, he snapped unfolded, opened the hem, pulled it down on top of the marker. Fit pretty well, he thought, and he was glad it covered the etched letters of Sherlock’s name. He took the racquetball, then, tossed it in a small arc to Sherlock.

Sherlock caught it, turned it over, pondered at the hollowed out hole that had been carved into it.

“Ready to run?” John smirked, pulling out a few small firecrackers banded together and a lighter. Sherlock grinned back as he caught on. Both of them checked out the area, deserted, no signs of groundskeeper or any other potential authorities. Sherlock held out the ball, John shoved the firecrackers inside, Sherlock placed it on the ground behind the stone, and John waited until he assured the area was still secure before lighting it. And then they ran, trying not to laugh too loudly, down the hill, through a gate, slowed as a few pedestrians on the sidewalk startled as there was a satisfying bang from up on the hill in the cemetery. A bit louder than John was expecting.

They exchanged looks, the noise of the city continuing around them, and finally decided it was safe to burst into loud laughter. There were no sirens forthcoming, yet. But there probably would be. Judging from the looks of a few people in the direction of the cemetery, someone would likely have reported it, they knew. Feeling a bit lighter of pocket as well as lighter in spirit, he shrugged, and they ambled back down the way they'd arrived, walking home. After a few silent blocks, John turned to Sherlock, whose gaze fixed back on him, waiting for a moment of closure from John. Sherlock knew the cemetery could not have been an easy obstacle to face, either years ago or today. And in typical fashion, John did not disappoint when he said, “ _Now_ we can go home and have sex in the middle of the day.”

Later that day, Lestrade arrived unannounced at the flat, knocking loudly. He was there on official business, he explained. Apparently there had been some vandalism at the cemetery and it involved Sherlock's marker. While John's face was carefully neutral, Sherlock found himself challenged to keep a straight face as Greg asked if they'd had any threats or knew of any of perhaps John's readers who might do something like desecrate a monument. Concerned, John refilled his tea, returned to the sitting room, sat down right next to his flatmate. Perhaps a bit close. Greg cleared his throat, a slightly puzzled look about him. John turned to Sherlock, then, held out his cup, offered him a sip, apologized for not refilling his along with his own. Greg, surprised, was not a smooth conversationalist.

John turned back to Greg, then, a serious expression, head angled slightly, and he bent an arm on the back of the couch, letting his wrist rest on Sherlock's shoulder. "Now, what do you need from us?"

He cleared his throat again, and the smirk on Sherlock's face was no longer a threat to their staying out of trouble. "Oh, nothing, I guess." He stood, folding his notepad. "So if you have more information, let me know?" John nodded, crossed a foot over a knee, let it touch one of Sherlock's long legs.

John watched Greg hesitate, and stood up himself leaving Sherlock on the couch. "I'll walk you out."

On the kerb, John spoke up. "We've decided, well, to change things a bit. You probably noticed?" Greg nodded. "Sherlock and I are giving the relationship a try. And it's very good. We're happy."

Greg smiled then, a heartfelt, genuine, almost relieved smile. "It's about bloody time."

++

Mrs. Hudson arrived one afternoon, a plate of biscuits in hand, to find them both asleep, curled up together on the couch. It had been a tight fit and a creative arrangement of limbs, but they had come home from a futile search for evidence cold and exhausted. John, in particular, had fallen asleep as soon as he had settled against the muscled expanse of Sherlock's shoulder, his knee tucked safely and intimately between Sherlock's legs. And so, when Mrs. Hudson came in, John continued to sleep while Sherlock remained perfectly still, amazingly content to be discovered as John's body pillow.

She whispered a brief, "Oh, my," and Sherlock tightened an arm around John, a gentle caress along his back and arm that lulled him to slide deeper into sleep.

"He's tired." His quiet words did not seem to disturb John.

She offered him the plate, and he took a biscuit, and she set the plate down, then, smiling as she appreciated confirmation of the nature of their living accommodations now. "I thought, perhaps, the other day... thin floors, you know."

"It's really good to be back home."

She watched him take a bite, a crumb accidentally landing next to John's head, several more as he nibbled. He wasn't hungry, not in the least, but between her and John, he felt obligated to eat in front of them from time to time.

"Watch those crumbs, young man. I'm not cleaning up after you, not your housekeeper, you know."

"No worries, John will do it."

John's eyes were still closed, but clearly he'd been listening. "It's your week to hoover."

In answer, Sherlock shook the biscuit over John's face, satisfied when more than a few crumbs had fallen on his face, chin, neck, and one rather well-placed in his ear. What Sherlock, in rare inattentiveness, had failed to realize, was that John's arm was keenly placed to strike in Sherlock's most ticklish of spots, his waist. None of the occupants of the room could say with any definite certainty who yelped the loudest, Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock, as both couched bodies were unceremoniously upended from said couch, launched out of Sherlock's extreme reaction to get away from John's stealthy attack of hand.

++

They are most of the way through the problematic areas in the flat -- most notably the front door, and a very memorable time in front of the flat windows, and, as with the kitchen chairs, they have quintessentially added some most excellent experiences to some others, including on the floor in front of a crackling fire, the kitchen while holding a cup of tea, and across John’s desk. When John asked about the desk, Sherlock reminded him carefully that he used to keep his gun in the top right drawer.

He has also faced the wallpaper, a strong hand holding him in place while another hand brought new meaning to the phrase, the wall had it coming.

John no longer feels the heavy sadness at times in the flat. He is less wary. Times apart are no longer inducing panic, not as frequently, anyway.

John tied his trainers, his running gear zipped up, and Sherlock lifts his head from whatever tissue samples have been holding his interest for the last few hours.

“I’m headed out then,” he said, adjusting the volume in his earbuds, taking one out when Sherlock gestured.

“Do you trust me?”

“What kind of a question is that, of course I trust you.” He started to put the headphones back in, hesitated. “Why do you ask?”

“Just a question, that’s all.”

John takes that at face value, and jogs down the steps.  Later, he would realise he should have been more prepared.

About 20 minutes into his run, his phone rings. He is partway around the circuit he usually runs, halfway through his usual path, near the park. He slows down, catching his breath, eyed the screen. It _rings_ , and it is Sherlock.

The last time Sherlock had called him, it was from the top of a building.

His flesh grows cold, it rings again, he can no longer breathe. His heart is pounding far more rapidly than the exertion of the run should have caused. It rings again, the screen blinking with the incoming number and the word _Sherlock_ in italics. For as much as they communicated using their mobiles, it was always via text message. Always.

He answers it, does not speak. Reflexively, his eyes take in the buildings on the one side of the path, looking for a tall silhouette, finding none. He is nowhere close to Barts, but it doesn't matter. The rooftops are empty, and John looks around, scanning the perimeter. There is a bicyclist heading toward him, and he freezes.

“John.”

He knows Sherlock can hear him breathing hard, waits. Speech is not in the realm of possibility.

“You can do this. It’s just a phone call.” He hears Sherlock sigh on the other end, pictures him at the window, running a desperate hand through his hair.

There is rage coiling in the pit of his gut, and he wants to growl “Fuck you” and hang up. He wishes, in part, that he had done that last time. He wants to run home, rip the phone out of Sherlock's hand, slap that smug face. He is standing on the path, and there is life in the park, people walking by, another bicycle, then, sounds of laughter in the open field to his right. A family, kids in tow, a push chair. There is fury that surprises him. “What?” His tone is low, menacing, and quiet.

“I thought we should talk.” John can hear the slightest amount of relief in Sherlock’s voice. “In case we ever actually needed to talk on the phone.”

“I... oh-my-god... I can’t.” Despite the fact that there is no one standing on the roof to his left, he can see it as clearly as he did that day. “Don’t do this.” The brokenness in his voice he absolutely hates, the weakness, the failure.

“You’re ok. And yes, John, we can do this. It’s just a phone call,” he says again. Sherlock’s voice is, actually, John hears, soothing. It is calm, easy, melodic. He uses his name again, knowing John likes the sound of it. “John, you are fine,” but the reassurance sounds hollow. “Start to walk again, if you want. It might help.” Of course he knew he’d grown roots and was immobile.

He swallows, it gets stuck. His mouth is completely dry. “If you ask me to get milk, I swear...” he lets the sentence trail off.

“Actually, no, we are okay on the milk.” He hears slight amusement in Sherlock’s voice, dislikes that immensely, thinks about where he last saw those gloves in the closet. Completely decides that finally, punching him in the face is going to happen today. Terrible, horrible, manipulative bastard! “I wanted to tell you that I'm grateful to be home.” Brief pause. “And that I'm proud of you. This hasn't been easy, and you've been very strong about it all. Thought I should let you know.”

“Piss off.” John wonders if vomiting outside the park, in public, would ease the somatic sensations beneath his ribs.

“You know you’re my best mate, right?”

It was too close, the conversations blending in his head, and he cringed as he recalled a fake confession. “Shut up, Sherlock.” He has taken a few steps, does actually feel the relentlessly coiled spring in his chest loosen just the slightest amount. “I can not believe you did this.”

“You’re doing great, John. I knew you could do it.” There is a sigh on the other end. “I’m hanging up now, John. I’ll see you in a little bit.” He does not say goodbye, but the call disconnects.

John stomach lurches, he feels again the cold dread from his toes to his head. Removing the ear buds, he wraps them around the phone, disconnecting the jack and pocketing both. His steps had slowed, but he continues, the only way home being to complete the loop, to come full circle. His eyes raise, and about the width of a football pitch away, is a tall man wearing a long coat watching him with steady eyes as he approached.

“Have I told you lately how much I hate you?” John does not back down. He would like very much to cover the re-opened wound, go back to the flat, hide for the day with shallow reading and a hot cup of tea. Instead, he regains perspective, sees this as an accomplishment but with a high personal cost. He feels wrung out, angry, and discouraged that the progress he’d thought they’d made in this relationship was perhaps not enough.

“I seem to recall some moaning last night to the contrary.”

“Fuck you.” It was much better in person, he realized, delivering the coveted line face to face.

Sherlock was completely still. “Maybe you should.” A slight raise of an eyebrow left John completely clear on what exactly he meant. They hadn’t, up until now, although he’d been thinking perhaps someday soon it would happen. Silently, by mutual agreement, they started off toward home. “Maybe not while you’re angry, however.”

There were only a few times in his life when John was speechless, and most of them - if not all - involved something Sherlock had either done or said. They walked in silence, Sherlock being particularly pensive, John being, still, mostly incapable. They turned the final street, still many blocks from the flat, and a park bench was off to one side, just into the grass. He touched Sherlock’s elbow, nodded his head at it, and they sat.

“No more surprises today, yeah?”

He frowned, stared off into space, checked his phone, smirking, and responded, “No, I think that’s it.”

“You know I’ve never...”

“Obviously, and it’s been a long time for me...”

“In the military, I saw a bit of ... damage ... Some of the guys with, well, bad experiences.” He looked at Sherlock, looked away. “Rather unpleasant.”

“I said it’s been a while, not that I’ve forgotten how. It doesn’t have to be ... _dangerous_.”

Some time later, Sherlock lay on his back, catching his breath, John holding his hand, a glistening sheen of sweat drying on both of them. “I don’t remember it being that good," he finally said.

John couldn’t stop the chuckle. “Must have been the medical grade lubricant.”

“Or the medical grade partner.”

“I’ll take that, I guess.”

“Yes, it will most definitely be your turn next.” And Sherlock ended up with a rather hearty laugh at the look of alarm on John’s face. "Oh come on, you said earlier that you trusted me."

++

It was only a couple of days later when Lestrade texted Sherlock. John had just made plans with Mike Stamford, who apparently had something of a crisis on his hands and had requested, rather urgently, for John to meet him at the pub down the street. Lestrade’s case was going to be time-consuming, from what they could tell, so Sherlock suggested John meeting Mike first, and then joining him in the morgue at St. Barts.

Sherlock was just entering the morgue to find it completely dark when Lestrade’s text came through. **Sorry, got delayed, on my way. Stay put, be right there. GL**

**Tedious. -SH**

Instead, he sought out Molly in her office only to find that dark, too, then noted it was late and that, occasionally, other people did have obligations. John’s influence, he thought with a bit of dissatisfaction. He poked around in Molly’s inbox looking for something of interest, and finding nothing, was set to head into the morgue for a sight-see when Greg texted again. **Some evidence up on the roof. You should come check it out. GL**

**On my way. -SH**

And so it was that Sherlock climbed a restricted access stairwell, pushed open the final exit door to find the roof in mostly darkness, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up just a bit.

He rounded the corner of the raised stairwell, the wind catching both hair and jacket as he did. There in front him, tucked into a sheltered corner of the roof, was John. Greg was nowhere in sight.

John stood up as he came over. There was a table, bottle of wine, apparently some take out from Angelo’s. “Too breezy for a candle, sorry.”

“John.” His voice was quiet, questioning.

“You okay up here?”

“Not planning on jumping, if that’s what you mean.” They shared a brief if inappropriate smile. Hands joined, then, John’s hands warm in Sherlock’s cooler ones. Unusual, John thought, wondering if perhaps he was just a bit unsettled. Slowly, they strolled over to the side of the building, the brick ledge in front of them. Two years previously Sherlock had been standing on that very ledge while John had watched, talking on the phone, from street level below. Tonight, they stood, settled, matured, surveying the place of difficult memories. John looked around. London was gorgeous at night, and tonight the sky was clear and the lights shone. Visibility was pretty good. John opted not to look down, swallowed over his nerves.

“No case.”

“No. Just me.”

“Do you need solving?”

He shook his head, a slight smirk on his face. “Greg might need help finding his phone. Molly might find her keys missing from her desk.” Sherlock attempted to look shocked, failed, seeing John Watson as the careful and slightly devious planner. They were, Sherlock realized, quite a dangerous pair. “I think after tonight, I might be mostly solved.”

“Lestrade and Molly are conspirators unknowingly, then? No one knows we’re here?”

“Just you and me. Mike knew I needed an excuse.” Sherlock’s front came up against John’s back as they both looked out over downtown. It was much windier away from the central roof structures. “I wasn’t sure how this would be, for either of us.”

“How is it for you?”

“I’m fine as long as you don’t joke about going over.” Arms tightened around John, then, and it was secure and comforting. “This couldn’t have been easy for you, though.”

“I came back up once, while I was ... gone. The blood stain was still there.” He pointed off to his left. “This, though, being here with you has me on edge.” John’s eyes narrowed at that, the light from the top of the stairwell illuminating the area well enough for Sherlock to smirk at the expression, and he continued. “Accidental word choice. Sorry.” John waited.

"I wish I could un-do how I hurt you. I had to decide so quickly, change plans right up until the end. And I had no idea... I mean, we've done a lot, had a lot of fun, replacing difficult memories with new ones, but it doesn't change the fact that I did you a real disservice."

"Sherlock," John said, turning so they were facing each other. "The disservice, would have been in denying me that miracle." The sentiment rang true, and warm lips met there, on the roof of the building. Had anyone been watching from the street, they would have seen a taller darker head lean down, eyes closed, touch the forehead of the shorter, lighter head, also eyes closed. They would have seen a peaceful exhale, faces relaxed, breathing comfortably. They would have sensed the inner calm, two bodies touching, head, arms, legs. Had anyone been watching from the street, they would have seen solid arms disappear into a long coat and, if the wind had been right, they may have heard a throaty chuckle followed by a racy proposition. The rooftop scene, had anyone noticed, would have ended with a hasty gathering of food, wine, keys, and stolen phone, and a hasty retreat from the top of St. Barts with a slight intermission in the dark hallway between Molly's office and the morgue, carefully and intentionally away from any hint of security camera. And they were both laughing as they straightened clothing before exiting the building, that they would never view the morgue the same way again.

John and Sherlock made their way out of the building, passing the security booth on their way out the door. The guard waved them through. On the street, in exactly the spot Sherlock had lay, their lives taking a dramatic detour, John paused. "You know, I will never forget, of course, this" he gestured, then deliberately stepping away, as Sherlock hailed a cab, "but I will always remember, too."

++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un beta'ed. All mistakes are my own. I find myself editing minor little things even after posting, so please if there's something major to fix, please let me know.
> 
> Thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Gosh, I do love a happy ending. No worries. Stay tuned.


End file.
